PIERRE  LOTI 


WAR 


WAR 


BY 

PIERRE  LOTI 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  BY 

MAKJORIE  LAURIE 


PHILADELPHIA  AND  LONDON 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

1917 


COPYKIGHT,   I9I7.   BT   J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


Printed  by  J.  B.  LippincoU  Company 
The  Washington  Square  Press,  Philadelphia,  U.  S.  A. 


.^'' 


0  ' 


1> 


TO  MY  FRIEND 
LOUIS  BARTHOU,  P.L. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I.  A    Letter    to    the    Minister    of 

Marine 9 

II.  Two    Poor    Little    Nestlings    of 

Belgium 12 

III.  A  Gay  Little  Scene  at  the  Battle 

Front 18 

IV.  Letter  to  Enver  Pasha 28 

V.  Another  Scene  at  the  Battle  Front    34 

VI.  The  Phantom  Basilica 53 

VII .  The  Flag  Which  Our  Naval  Bri- 
gade DO  not  Yet  Possess 68 

VIII.  Tahiti  and  the  Savages  with  Pink 

Skins  Like  Boiled  Pig 80 

IX.  A  Little  Hussar 85 

X.  An  Evening  at  Ypres 95 

XI.  At  the  General  Headquarters  of 

the  Belgian  Army Ill 

XII.  Some  Words  Uttered  by  Her  Maj- 
esty, THE  Queen  of  the  Belgians  .  127 

XIII.  An  Appeal  on  Behalf  of  the  Seri- 

ously Wounded  in  the  East 139 

XIV.  Serbia  in  the  Balkan  War 148 

XV.  Above  All  Let  Us  Never  Forget!  ,   151 

XVI.  The  Inn  of  the  Good  Samaritan.  . .  157 

7 


8  CONTENTS 

XVII.  For  the  Rescue  of  Our  Wounded  . .  174 

XVIII.  At  Rheims 177 

XIX.  The  Death-Bearing  Gas 192 

XX.  All-Souls'    Day   with  the  Armies 

AT  the  Front 205 

XXI.  The  Cross  of  Honour  for  the  Flag 

OP  THE  Naval  Brigade 211 

XXII.  The  Absent-Minded  Pilgrim 219 

XXIII.  The  First  Sunshine  of  March 242 

XXIV.  At  Soissons 265 

XXV.  The  Two  Gorgon  Heads 299 


WAR 

I 

A  LETTER  TO  THE  MINISTER  OF 
MARINE 

Captain  J.  Viaud  of  the  Naval  Reserve, 
TO  THE  Minister  of  Marine. 

Rochefort,  August  18tJi,  1914. 
Sir, 

When  I  was  recalled  to  active  service 
on  the  outbreak  of  war  I  had  hopes  of  per- 
forming some  duty  less  insignificant  than 
that  which  was  assigned  to  me  in  our  dock- 
yards. 

Believe  me,  I  have  no  reproaches  to 
make,  for  I  am  very  well  aware  that  the 
Navy  will  not  fill  the  principal  role  in  this 
war,  and  that  all  my  comrades  of  the  same 
rank  are  likewise  destined  to  almost  com- 
plete inaction  for  mere  lack  of  oppor- 

9 


10  WAR 

tunity,  like  myself  doomed,  alas!  to  see 
their  energies  sapped,  their  spirits  in 
torment. 

But  let  me  invoke  the  other  name  I  bear. 
The  average  man  is  not  as  a  rule  well 
versed  in  Naval  Regulations.  Will  it  not, 
then,  be  a  bad  example  in  our  dear  coun- 
try, where  everyone  is  doing  his  duty  so 
splendidly,  if  Pierre  Loti  is  to  serve  no 
useful  end  ?  The  exercise  of  two  profes- 
sions places  me  as  an  officer  in  a  some- 
what exceptional  position,  does  it  not? 
Forgive  me  then  for  soliciting  a  degree 
of  exceptional  and  indulgent  treatment.  I 
should  accept  with  joy,  with  pride,  any 
position  whatsoever  that  would  bring  me 
nearer  to  the  fighting-line,  even  if  it  were 
a  very  subordinate  post,  one  much  below 
the  dignity  of  my  five  rows  of  gold  braid. 

Or,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  last  resort, 
could  I  not  be  appointed  a  supernumerary 
on  special  duty  on  some  ship  which  might 


WAR  11 

have  a  chance  of  seeing  real  fighting?  I 
assure  you  that  I  should  find  some  means 
of  making  myself  useful  there.  Or,  finally, 
if  there  are  too  many  rules  and  regula- 
tions in  the  way,  would  you  grant  me,  sir, 
while  w^aiting  until  my  services  may  be 
required  by  the  Fleet,  liberty  to  come  and 
go,  so  that  I  may  try  to  find  some  kind  of 
employment,  even  if  it  be  only  ambulance 
work?  My  lot  is  hard,  and  no  one  will 
understand  that  the  mere  fact  that  I  am  a 
captain  in  the  Naval  Reserve  dooms  me 
to  almost  complete  inaction,  while  all 
France  is  in  arms. 

(Signed)  Julien  Yiaud. 
(Pierre  Loti.) 


n 

TWO  POOR  LITTLE  NESTLINGS  OF 
BELGIUM 

August,  1914. 
One  evening  a  train  full  of  Belgian  ref- 
ugees had  just  entered  the  railway  station 
of  one  of  our  southern  towns.  Worn  out 
and  dazed,  the  poor  martyrs  stepped  down 
slowly,  one  by  one,  on  to  the  unfamiliar 
platform  where  Frenchmen  were  waiting 
to  welcome  them.  Carrying  with  them  a 
few  articles  of  clothing,  caught  up  at  hap- 
hazard, they  had  climbed  up  into  the 
coaches  without  so  much  as  asking  them- 
selves what  was  their  destination.  They 
had  taken  refuge  there  in  hurried  flight, 
desperate  flight  from  horror  and  death, 
from  fire,  mutilations  unspeakable  and 
Sadie  outrages — such  things,  deemed  no 
longer  possible  on  earth,  had  been  brood- 

12 


WAR  13 

ing  still,  it  seemed,  in  the  depths  of  pie- 
tistic  German  brains,  and,  like  an  ultimate 
spewing  forth  of  primeval  barbarities,  had 
burst  suddenly  upon  their  country  and 
upon  our  own.  Village,  hearth,  family — 
nothing  remained  to  them;  without  pur- 
pose, like  waifs  and  strays,  they  had 
drifted  there,  and  in  the  eyes  of  all  lay 
horror  and  anguish.  Among  them  were 
many  children,  little  girls,  whose  parents 
were  lost  in  the  midst  of  conflagrations  or 
battles ;  aged  grandmothers,  too,  now  alone 
in  the  world,  who  had  fled,  scarce  knowing 
why,  clinging  no  longer  to  life,  yet  urged 
on  by  some  obscure  instinct  of  self-pres- 
ervation. The  faces  of  these  aged  women 
expressed  no  emotion,  not  even  despair; 
it  seemed  as  if  their  souls  had  actually 
abandoned  their  bodies  and  reason  their 
brains. 

Lost  in  that  mournful  throng  were  two 
quite  young  children,  holding  each  other 


14  WAR 

tightly  by  the  hand,  two  little  boys,  evi- 
dently two  little  brothers.  The  elder,  five 
years  of  age  perhaps,  was  protecting  the 
younger,  whose  age  may  have  been  three. 
No  one  claimed  them ;  no  one  knew  them. 
When  they  found  themselves  alone,  how 
was  it  that  they  understood  that  if  they 
would  escape  death  they,  too,  must  climb 
into  that  train?  Their  clothes  were  neat, 
and  they  wore  warm  little  woollen  stock- 
ings. Evidently  they  belonged  to  humble 
but  careful  parents.  Doubtless  they  were 
the  sons  of  one  of  those  glorious  soldiers 
of  Belgium  who  fell  like  heroes  upon  the 
field  of  honour — ^sons  of  a  father  who,  in 
the  moment  of  death,  must  needs  have  be- 
stowed upon  them  one  last  and  tender 
thought.  So  overwhelmed  were  they  with 
weariness  and  want  of  sleep  that  they  did 
not  even  cry.  Scarcely  could  they  stand 
upright.  They  could  not  answer  the  ques- 
tions that  were  put  to  them,  but  above  all 


WAR  15 

they  refused  to  let  go  of  each  other ;  that 
they  would  not  do.  At  last  the  big,  elder 
brother,  still  gripping  the  other's  hand  for 
fear  of  losing  him,  realised  the  respon- 
sibilities of  his  character  of  protector ;  he 
summoned  up  strength  to  speak  to  the  lady 
with  the  brassard,  who  was  bending  down 
to  him. 

''Madame,"  he  said,  in  a  very  small, 
beseeching  voice,  already  half-asleep, 
"Madame,  is  anyone  going  to  put  us  to 
bed?" 

For  the  moment  this  was  the  only  wish 
they  were  capable  of  forming ;  all  that  they 
looked  for  from  the  mercy  of  mankind  was 
that  someone  would  be  so  good  as  to  put 
them  to  bed.  They  were  soon  put  to  bed, 
together,  you  may  be  sure,  and  they  went 
to  sleep  at  once,  still  holding  hands  and 
nestling  close  to  each  other,  both  sinking 
in  the  same  instant  into  the  peaceful 
oblivion  of  children's  slumbers. 


16  WAR 

One  day  long  ago,  in  the  China  Seas 
during  the  war,  two  bewildered  little  birds, 
two  tiny  little  birds,  smaller  even  than  our 
wren,  had  made  their  way,  I  know  not 
how,  on  board  our  iron-clad  and  into  our 
admiral's  quarters.  No  one,  to  be  sure, 
had  sought  to  frighten  them,  and  all  day 
long  they  had  fluttered  about  from  side  to 
side,  perching  on  cornices  or  on  green 
plants.  By  nightfall  I  had  forgotten  them, 
when  the  admiral  sent  for  me.  It  was  to 
show  me,  with  emotion,  his  two  little  visi- 
tors; they  had  gone  to  sleep  in  his  room, 
perched  on  one  leg  upon  a  silken  cord 
fastened  above  his  bed.  Like  two  little 
balls  of  feathers,  touching  and  almost 
mingling  in  one,  they  slept  close,  very 
close  together,  without  the  slightest  fear, 
as  if  very  sure  of  our  pity. 

And  these  poor  little  Belgian  children, 
sleeping  side  by  side,  made  me  think  of 
those  two  nestlings,  astray  in  the  midst  of 


WAR  17 

the  China  Seas.  Theirs,  too,  was  the  same 
trust;  theirs  the  same  innocent  slumber. 
But  these  children  were  to  be  protected 
with  a  far  more  tender  solicitude. 


in 

A  GAY  LITTLE  SCENE  AT  THE 
BATTLE  FRONT 

October,  1914. 

At  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning 
of  that  day  I  arrived  at  a  village — ^its 
name  I  have,  let  us  say,  forgotten.  My 
companion  was  an  English  commandant, 
whom  the  fortunes  of  war  had  given  me 
for  comrade  since  the  previous  evening. 
Our  path  was  lighted  by  that  great  and 
genial  magician,  the  sun — a  radiant  sun, 
a  holiday  sun,  transfiguring  and  beauti- 
fying all  things.  This  occurred  in  a  de- 
partment in  the  extreme  north  of  France, 
which  one  it  was  I  have  never  known,  but 
the  weather  was  so  fine  that  we  might  have 
imagined  ourselves  in  Provence. 

For  nearly  two  hours  our  way  lay 

18 


WAE  19 

hemmed  in  between  two  columns  of 
soldiers,  marching  in  opposite  directions. 
On  our  right  were  the  English  going  into 
action,  very  clean,  very  fresh,  with  an  air 
of  satisfaction  and  in  high  spirits.  They 
were  admirably  equipped  and  their  horses 
in  the  pink  of  condition.  On  our  left  were 
French  Artillerymen  coming  back  from 
the  Titanic  battle  to  enjoy  a  little  rest. 
The  latter  were  coated  with  dust,  and  some 
wore  bandages  round  arm  and  forehead, 
but  they  stiU  preserved  their  gaiety  of 
countenance  and  the  aspect  of  healthy  men, 
and  they  marched  in  sections  in  good  order. 
They  were  actually  bringing  back  quan- 
tities of  empty  cartridge  cases,  which 
they  had  found  time  to  collect,  a  sure  proof 
that  they  had  withdrawn  from  the  scene 
of  action  at  their  leisure,  unhurried  and 
unafraid — ^victorious  soldiers  to  whom 
their  chiefs  had  prescribed  a  few  days' 
respite.    In  the  distance  we  heard  a  noise 


20  WAR 

like  a  thunderstorm,  muffled  at  first,  to 
which  we  were  drawing  nearer  and  yet 
nearer.  Peasants  were  working  in  the  ad- 
joining fields  as  if  nothing  unusual  were 
happening,  and  yet  they  were  not  sure 
that  the  savages,  who  were  responsible 
for  such  tumult  yonder,  would  not  come 
back  one  of  these  days  and  pillage  every- 
thing. Here  and  there  in  the  meadows, 
on  the  grass,  sat  groups  of  fugitives,  clus- 
tered around  little  wood  fires.  The  scene 
would  have  been  dismal  enough  on  a 
gloomy  day,  but  the  sun  managed  to  shed 
a  cheerful  light  upon  it.  They  cooked 
their  meals  in  gipsy  fashion,  surrounded 
by  bundles  in  which  they  had  hurriedly 
packed  together  their  scanty  clothing  in 
the  terrible  rush  for  safety. 

Our  motor  car  was  filled  with  packets 
of  cigarettes  and  with  newspapers,  which 
kind  souls  had  commissioned  us  to  carry 
to  the  men  in  the  firing-line,  and  so  slow 


WAR  21 

was  our  progress,  so  closely  were  we 
hemmed  in  by  the  two  columns  of  soldiers, 
that  we  were  able  to  distribute  our  gifts 
through  the  doors  of  the  car,  to  the  Eng- 
lish on  our  right,  to  the  French  on  our 
left.  They  stretched  out  their  hands  to 
catch  them  in  mid-air,  and  thanked  us 
with  a  smile  and  a  quick  salute. 

There  were  also  villagers  who  travelled 
along  that  overcrowded  road  mingling  in 
confusion  with  the  soldiers.  I  remember 
a  very  pretty  young  peasant  woman,  who 
was  dragging  along  by  a  string,  in  the 
midst  of  the  English  transport  wagons,  a 
little  go-cart  with  two  sleeping  babies. 
She  was  toiling  along,  for  the  gradient 
just  there  was  steep.  A  handsome  Scotch 
sergeant,  with  a  golden  moustache,  who 
sat  on  the  back  of  the  nearest  wagon  smok- 
ing a  cigarette  and  dangling  his  legs,  beck- 
oned to  her. 

*'Give  me  the  end  of  your  string.'' 


22  WAR 

She  understood  and  accepted  Ms  offer 
with  a  smile  of  pretty  confusion.  The 
Scotchman  wound  the  fragile  tow-rope 
roimd  his  left  arm,  keeping  his  right  arm 
free  so  that  he  might  go  on  smoking.  So 
it  was  really  he  who  brought  along  these 
two  babies  of  France,  while  the  heavy 
transport  lorry  drew  their  little  cart  like 
a  feather. 

When  we  entered  the  village,  the  sun 
shone  with  increasing  splendour.  Such 
chaos,  such  confusion  prevailed  there  as 
had  never  been  seen  before,  and  after  this 
war,  unparalleled  in  history,  will  never 
again  be  witnessed.  Uniforms  of  every 
description,  weapons  of  every  sort,  Scots, 
French  cuirassiers,  Turcos,  Zouaves,  Bed- 
ouins, whose  burnouses  swung  upwards 
with  a  noble  gesture  as  they  saluted.  The 
church  square  was  blocked  with  huge 
English  motor-omnibuses  that  had  once 
been  a  means  of  communication  in  the 


WAR  23 

streets  of  London,  and  still  displayed  in 
large  letters  the  names  of  certain  districts 
of  that  city.  I  shall  be  accused  of  exag- 
geration, but  it  is  a  fact  that  these  omni- 
buses wore  a  look  of  astonishment  at  find- 
ing themselves  rolling  along,  packed  with 
soldiers,  over  the  soil  of  France. 

All  these  people,  mingled  together  in 
confusion,  were  making  preparations  for 
luncheon.  Those  savages  yonder  (who 
might  perhaps  arrive  here  on  the  morrow 
— who  could  say?)  still  conducted  their 
great  symphony,  their  incessant  cannon- 
ade, but  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  it. 
Who,  moreover,  could  be  uneasy  in  such 
beautiful  surroundings,  such  surprising 
autumn  sunshine,  while  roses  still  grew  on 
the  walls,  and  many-coloured  dahlias  in 
gardens  that  the  white  frost  had  scarcely 
touched?  Everyone  settled  down  to  the 
meal  and  made  the  best  of  things.  You 
would  have  thought  you  were  looking  at 


24  WAR 

a  festival,  a  somewhat  incongruous  and 
unusual  festival,  to  be  sure,  improvised  in 
the  vicinity  of  some  tower  of  Babel.  Girls 
wandered  about  among  the  groups;  little 
fair-haired  children  gave  away  fruit  they 
had  gathered  in  their  own  orchards.  Scots- 
men in  shirt-sleeves  were  persuaded  that 
the  country  they  were  in  was  warm  by 
comparison  with  their  own.  Priests  and 
Red  Cross  sisters  were  finding  seats  for 
the  wounded  on  packing-cases.  One  good 
old  sister,  with  a  face  like  parchment,  and 
frank,  pretty  eyes  imder  her  mob-cap, 
took  infinite  pains  to  make  a  Zouave  com- 
fortable, whose  arms  were  both  wrapped 
in  bandages.  Doubtless  she  would  pres- 
ently feed  him  as  if  he  were  a  little  child. 
We  ourselves,  the  Englishman  and  I, 
were  very  hungry,  so  we  made  our  way 
to  the  pleasant-looking  inn,  where  officers 
were  already  seated  at  table  with  soldiers 
of  lower  rank.     (In  these  times  of  tor- 


WAR  25 

ment  in  which  we  live  hierarchal  barriers 
no  longer  exist.) 

"I  could  certainly  give  you  roast  beef 
and  rabbit  saute/'  said  the  innkeeper, '  'but 
as  for  bread,  no  indeed  I  it  is  not  to  be  had ; 
you  cannot  buy  bread  anywhere  at  any 
price.'' 

*'Ah!"  said  my  comrade,  the  English 
commandant,  ''and  what  about  those  ex- 
cellent loaves  over  there  standing  up 
against  the  door  *? ' ' 

"Oh,  those  loaves  belong  to  a  general 
who  sent  them  here,  because  he  is  coming 
to  luncheon  with  his  aides-de-camp." 

Hardly  had  he  turned  his  back  when  my 
companion  hastily  drew  a  knife  from  his 
pocket,  sliced  off  the  end  of  one  of  those 
golden  loaves,  and  hid  it  under  his  coat. 

"We  have  found  some  bread,"  he  said 
calmly  to  the  innkeeper, ' '  so  you  can  bring 
luncheon." 

So,  seated  beside  an  Arab  officer  of  la 


26  WAR 

Grande  Tente,  dressed  in  a  red  burnous, 
we  luncheon  gaily  with  our  guests,  the 
soldier-chauffeurs  of  our  motor  car. 

When  we  left  the  inn  to  continue  our 
journey  the  festival  of  the  sun  was  at  its 
height;  it  cast  a  glad  light  upon  that  ill- 
assorted  throng  and  the  strange  motor- 
omnibuses.  A  convoy  of  German  pris- 
oners was  crossing  the  square ;  bestial  and 
sly  of  countenance  they  marched  between 
our  own  soldiers,  who  kept  time  infinitely 
better  than  they;  scarcely  a  glance  was 
thrown  at  them. 

The  old  nun  I  spoke  of,  so  old  and  so 
pure-eyed,  was  helping  her  Zouave  to 
smoke  a  cigarette,  holding  it  to  his  lips 
rather  awkwardly  with  trembling,  grand- 
motherly solicitude.  At  the  same  time  she 
seemed  to  be  telling  him  some  quite  amus- 
ing stories — with  the  innocent,  ingenuous 
merriment  of  which  good  nuns  have  the 
secret — for  they  were  both  laughing.   Who 


WAR  27 

can  say  what  little  childish  tale  it  may  have 
been?  An  old  parish  priest,  who  was 
smoking  his  pipe  near  them — without  any 
particular  refinement,  I  am  bound  to  admit 
— laughed,  too,  to  see  them  laugh.  And 
just  as  we  were  going  into  our  car  to  con- 
tinue our  journey  to  those  regions  of 
horror  where  the  cannon  were  thundering, 
a  little  girl  of  twelve  ran  and  plucked  a 
sheaf  of  autumn  asters  from  her  garden 
to  deck  us  with  flowers. 

What  good  people  there  are  still  in  the 
world!  And  how  greatly  has  the  aggres- 
sion of  German  savages  reinforced  those 
tender  bonds  of  brotherhood  that  unite 
all  who  are  truly  of  the  human  species. 


LETTER  TO  ENVER  PASHA 

Rochefort,  September  ^tli,  1914. 

My  Dear  and  Great  Friend, 

Forgive  my  letter  for  the  sake  of  my 
affection  and  admiration  for  yourself  and 
of  my  regard  for  your  country,  whicli  to 
some  extent  I  have  made  my  own.  In  the 
country  round  Tripoli  you  played  the  part 
of  splendid  hero,  without  fear  and  with- 
out reproach,  holding  your  own,  ten  men 
against  a  thousand.  In  Thrace  it  was  you 
who  recovered  Adrianople  for  Turkey, 
and  this  feat,  the  recapture  of  that  town 
of  heroes,  you  effected  almost  without 
bloodshed.  Everywhere,  with  the  violence 
necessitated  by  the  circumstances,  you 
suppressed  cruelty  and  brigandage.  I  wit- 
nessed your  indignation  against  the  atroci- 

28 


WAR  29 

ties  of  the  Bulgarians,  and  you  yourself 
desired  me  to  visit,  in  your  service  motor 
car,  the  ruins  of  those  villages  through 
which  the  assassins  had  passed. 

Well,  I  will  tell  you  a  fact  of  which  you 
are  doubtless  yet  ignorant:  In  Belgiiun, 
in  France,  and  moreover  hy  order,  the 
Germans  are  committing  these  same  abomi- 
nations which  the  Bulgarians  committed 
in  your  country,  and  they  are  a  thousand 
times  more  detestable  still,  for  the  Bul- 
garians were  primitive  mountaineers 
under  the  influence  of  fanaticism,  whereas 
these  others  are  civilised.  Civilised'?  So 
fundamental  is  their  brutality  that  culture 
has  no  grasp  of  their  souls  and  nothing 
can  be  expected  of  them. 

Turkey  to-day  desires  to  win  back  her 
islands;  this  point  no  one  who  is  not 
blinded  with  prejudice  can  fail  to  under- 
stand. But  I  tremble  lest  she  should  go 
too  far  in  this  war.   Alas !  well  do  I  divine 


30  WAE 

the  pressure  that  is  brought  to  bear  upon 
your  dear  country  and  yourself  by  that 
execrable  being,  the  incarnation  of  all  the 
vices  of  the  Prussian  race,  ferocity,  arro- 
gance, and  trickery.  Doubtless  he  has 
seen  good  to  take  advantage  of  your  fine 
and  ardent  patriotism,  luring  you  on  with 
illusive  promises  of  revenge.  Beware  of 
his  lies!  Assuredly  he  has  contrived  to 
keep  tmth  from  reaching  you,  else  would 
he  have  alienated  your  loyal  soldier's 
heart.  Even  as  he  has  convinced  a  section 
of  his  own  people,  so  he  has  known  how 
to  persuade  you  that  these  butcheries  were 
forced  upon  him.  It  is  not  so ;  they  were 
planned  long  ago  with  devilish  cjroicism. 
He  has  succeeded  in  inspiring  you  with 
faith  in  his  victories,  though  he  knows, 
as  to-day  the  whole  world  knows,  that  in 
the  end  the  triumph  will  rest  with  us. 
And  even  if  by  some  impossible  chance  we 
were  to  succumb  for  a  time,  neverthless 


WAR  31 

would  Prussia  and  her  dynasty  of  tigerish 
brutes  remain  nailed  fast  forever  to  the 
most  shameful  pillory  in  all  the  history 
of  mankind. 

How  deeply  should  I  suffer  were  I  to 
see  our  dear  Turkey,  by  this  wretch,  hurl 
herself  in  his  train  into  a  terrible  venture. 
More  painful  still  were  it  to  witness  her 
dishonour,  should  she  associate  herself 
with  these  ultimate  barbarians  in  their 
attack  upon  civilisation.  Oh,  could  you 
but  know  with  what  infinite  loathing  the 
whole  world  looks  upon  the  Prussian  race ! 

Alas !  you  owe  no  debt  to  France,  that  I 
know  only  too  well.  We  lent  our  authority 
to  Italy's  attempt  upon  Tripoli.  Later, 
in  the  beginning  of  the  Balkan  War,  we 
forgot  the  age-long  hospitality  so  gener- 
ously offered  to  us  Frenchmen,  to  our 
seminaries,  to  our  culture,  to  our  language, 
which  you  have  almost  made  your  own. 
In  thoughtlessness  and  ignorance  we  sided 


32  WAE 

with  voTir  neighbours,  from  whom  our 
nanon  received  naught  but  ill-will  and 
5>erseeution.  We  initiated  against  vou  a 
campaign  of  calumnv.  and  onlv  too  late 
we  have  acknowledged  its  injustice.  The 
Germans,  on  the  other  hand,  were  alone 
in  affording  vou  a  little — oh,  a  verv  little  I 
— enc-ouragement.  But  even  so,  it  is  not 
worth  your  committing  suicide  for  their 
sakes.  Moreover,  vou  see.  in  this  very 
hour,  these  people  are  succeeding  in  put- 
ting themselves  outside  the  pale  of  hu- 
manity. To  march  in  their  company 
would  become  not  only  a  danger,  but  a 
degradation. 

Your  influence  over  your  country  is 
fully  justified :  may  you  hold  her  back  on 
that  fatal  decline  to  which  she  seems  com- 
mitted- My  letter  will  be  long  on  the  way, 
but  when  it  arrives  your  eyes  may  perhaps 
be  already  opened,  despite  the  web  of  lies 
in  which  Germany  has  entrammelled  you. 


WAR  33 


I  h::,::_:o:l  :^.:i  -.il-::"-::- ^  :/,itliin  oar 
-11.:'-  :-::':..ii-:.'i..  ':\:~  :l  :_-  iij  ::  rir  de- 
liT-::,-;-  _:—  —  .-.^i  117  -ov  be  Tailed  in 
^''"  • ' : '" ''  •  -' :-  ::  11  t  >e-::i.d  comitzy.  zzj 
.-, ..^-.,._  -_  .-^_  (jr:--:.  — eretobnrv  i'St.: 

01  P;-S5.-. 


V 

ANOTHER  SCENE  AT  THE 
BATTLE  FRONT 

October,  1914. 
Whereabouts,  you  may  ask,  did  this  come 
to  pass  ?  Well,  it  is  one  of  the  peculiarities 
of  this  war,  that  in  spite  of  my  familiarity 
with  maps,  and  notwithstanding  the  excel- 
lence in  detail  of  the  plans  which  I  carry 
about  with  me,  I  never  know  where  I  am. 
At  any  rate  this  certainly  happened  some- 
where. I  have,  moreover,  a  sad  conviction 
that  it  happened  in  France.  I  should  so 
much  have  preferred  it  to  have  happened 
in  Germany,  for  it  was  close  up  to  the 
enemy's  lines,  imder  fire  of  their  guns. 

I  had  travelled  by  motor  car  since  morn- 
ing, and  had  passed  through  more  towns, 
large  and  small,  than  I  can  count.    I  re- 

34 


WAR  35 

member  one  scene  in  a  village  where  I 
halted,  a  village  which  had  certainly  never 
before  seen  motor-omnibuses  or  throngs 
of  soldiers  and  horses.  Some  fifty  Ger- 
man prisoners  were  brought  in.  They 
were  unshaven,  unshorn,  and  highly  un- 
prepossessing. I  will  not  flatter  them  by 
saying  that  they  looked  like  savages,  for 
true  savages  in  the  bush  are  seldom  lacking 
either  in  distinction  or  grace  of  bearing. 
Such  air  as  these  Germans  had  was  a  black- 
guard air  of  doltish  ugliness — dull,  gross, 
incurable. 

A  pretty  girl  of  somewhat  doubtful 
character,  with  feathers  in  her  hat,  who 
had  taken  up  a  position  there  to  watch 
them  go  past,  stared  at  them  with  ill-con- 
cealed resentment. 

*^  Oh  indeed,  is  it  with  freaks  like  those 
that  their  dirty  Kaiser  invites  us  to  breed 
for    beauty?     God's   truth!''    and    she 


36  WAR 

clinched  her  unfinished  phrase  by  spitting 
on  the  ground. 

For  the  next  hour  or  two  I  passed 
through  a  deserted  countryside,  woods  in 
autumn  colouring  and  leafless  forests 
which  seemed  interminable  under  a 
gloomy  sky.  It  was  cold,  with  that  bitter, 
penetrating  chill  which  we  hardly  know 
in  my  home  in  south-west  France,  and 
which  seemed  characteristic  of  northern 
lands. 

From  time  to  time  a  village  through 
which  the  barbarians  had  passed  dis- 
played to  us  its  ruins,  charred  and  black- 
ened by  fire.  Here  and  there  by  the  way- 
side lay  little  grave-mounds,  either  singly 
or  grouped  together — ^mounds  lately  dug ; 
a  few  leaves  had  been  scattered  above 
them  and  a  cross  made  of  two  sticks. 
Soldiers,  their  names  now  for  ever  for- 
gotten, had  fallen  there  exhausted  and  had 
breathed  their  last  with  none  to  help  them. 


WAR  37 

We  scarcely  noticed  tliem,  for  we  raced 
along  with  ever-increasing  speed,  because 
the  night  of  late  October  was  already  clos- 
ing rapidly  in  upon  us.  As  the  day  ad- 
vanced a  mist  almost  wintry  in  character 
thickened  around  us  like  a  shroud.  Si- 
lence pervaded  with  still  deeper  melan- 
choly all  that  countryside,  which,  although 
the  barbarians  had  been  expelled  from  it, 
still  had  memories  of  all  those  butcheries, 
ravings,  outcries,  and  conflagrations. 

In  the  midst  of  a  forest,  near  a  hamlet, 
of  which  nothing  remained  save  fragments 
of  calcined  walls,  there  were  two  graves 
lying  side  by  side.  Near  these  I  halted 
to  look  at  a  little  girl  of  twelve  years,  quite 
alone  there,  arranging  bunches  of  flowers 
sprinkled  with  water,  some  poor  chrys- 
anthemums from  her  ruined  plot  of  gar- 
den, some  wild  flowers  too,  the  last  scabious 
of  the  season,  gathered  in  that  place  of 
mourning. 


38  WAR 

"Were  they  friends  of  yours,  my  child, 
those  two  who  are  sleeping  there?" 

*'0h  no,  sir,  but  I  know  that  they  were 
Frenchmen;  I  saw  them  being  buried. 
They  were  young,  sir,  and  their  moustaches 
were  scarcely  grown." 

There  was  no  inscription  on  these 
crosses,  soon  to  be  blown  down  by  winter 
winds  and  to  crumble  away  in  the  grass. 
Who  were  they  I  Sons  of  peasants,  of 
simple  citizens,  of  aristocrats?  Who 
weeps  for  them?  Is  it  a  mother  in  skil- 
fully fashioned  draperies  of  crape  ?  Is  it 
a  mother  in  the  homely  weeds  of  a  peasant 
woman  ?  Whichever  it  be,  those  who  loved 
them  will  live  and  die  without  ever  know- 
ing that  they  lie  mouldering  there  by  the 
side  of  a  lonely  road  on  the  northern  boun- 
dary of  France ;  without  ever  knowing  that 
this  kind  little  girl,  whose  own  home  lay 
desolate,  brought  them  an  offering  of 
flowers  one  autumn  evening,  while  with 


WAR  39 

the  advent  of  night  a  bitter  cold  was  de- 
scending upon  the  forest  which  wrapped 
them  round. 

Farther  on  I  came  to  a  village,  the  head- 
quarters of  a  general  ofi&cer  in  command 
of  an  army  corps.  Here  an  officer  joined 
me  in  my  motor  car,  who  undertook  to 
guide  me  to  one  particular  point  of  the 
vast  battle  front. 

We  drove  on  rapidly  for  another  hour 
through  a  country  without  inhabitants.  In 
the  meantime  we  passed  one  of  these  long 
convoys  of  what  were  once  motor-omni- 
buses in  Paris,  but  have  been  converted 
since  the  war  into  slaughter-houses  on 
wheels.  Townspeople,  men  and  women, 
sat  there  once,  where  now  sides  of  beef, 
all  red  and  raw,  swing  suspended  from 
hooks.  If  we  did  not  know  that  in  those 
fields  yonder  there  were  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  men  to  be  fed  we  might  well  ask 
why  such  things  were  being  carted  in  the 


40  WAR 

midst  of  this  deserted  country  through 
which  we  are  hastening  at  top  speed. 

The  day  is  waning  rapidly,  and  a  con- 
tinuous rumbling  of  a  storm  begins  to  make 
itself  heard,  unchained  seemingly  on  a 
level  with  the  earth.  For  weeks  now  this 
same  storm  has  thimdered  away  without 
pause  along  a  sinuous  line  stretching 
across  France  from  east  to  west,  a  line 
on  which  daily,  alas!  new  heaps  of  dead 
are  piled  up. 

"Here  we  are,''  said  my  guide. 

If  I  were  not  already  familiar  with  the 
new  characteristics  wherewith  the  Ger- 
mans have  endued  a  battle  front,  I  should 
believe,  in  spite  of  the  incessant  cannon- 
ade, that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  for  at 
first  sight  there  is  no  sign  either  of  army 
or  of  soldiers.  We  are  in  a  place  of  sin- 
ister aspect,  a  vast  plain;  the  greyish 
ground  is  stripped  of  its  turf  and  torn  up ; 
trees  here  and  there  are  shattered  more  or 


WAR  41 

less  completely,  as  if  by  some  cataclysm 
of  thunderbolts  or  hailstones.  There  is 
no  trace  of  human  existence,  not  even  the 
ruins  of  a  village;  nothing  characteristic 
of  any  period,  either  of  historical  or  even 
of  geological  development.  Grazing  into 
the  distance  at  the  far-flung  forest  skyline 
fading  on  all  sides  into  the  darkening  mists 
of  twilight,  we  might  well  believe  ourselves 
to  have  reverted  to  a  prehistoric  epoch  of 
the  world's  history. 

^'Here  we  are.'' 

That  means  that  it  is  time  to  hide  our 
motor  car  under  some  trees  or  it  will  attract 
a  rain  of  shells  and  endanger  the  lives  of 
our  chauffeurs,  for  in  that  misty  forest 
opposite  there  are  many  wicked  eyes 
watching  us  through  wonderful  binoc- 
ulars, by  whose  aid  they  are  as  keen  of 
sight  as  great  birds  of  prey.  To  reach  the 
firing-line,  then,  it  is  incumbent  on  us  to 
proceed  on  foot. 


42  WAR 

How  strange  the  ground  looks!  It  is 
riddled  with  shell-holes,  resembling  enor- 
mous craters ;  in  another  place  it  is  scarred 
and  pierced  and  sown  with  pointed  bul- 
lets, copper  cartridge-cases,  fragments  of 
spiked  helmets,  and  barbarian  filth  of 
other  sorts.  But  in  spite  of  its  deserted 
appearance,  this  region  is  nevertheless 
thickly  populated,  only  the  inhabitants  are 
no  doubt  troglodytes,  for  their  dwellings, 
scattered  about  and  invisible  at  first  sight, 
are  a  kind  of  cave  or  molehill,  half  cov- 
ered with  branches  and  leaves.  I  had  seen 
the  same  kind  of  architecture  once  upon 
a  time  on  Easter  Island,  and  the  sight  of 
these  dwellings  of  men  in  this  scenery  of 
primeval  forest  completes  our  earlier  im- 
pression of  having  leapt  backwards  into 
the  abyss  of  time. 

Of  a  truth,  to  force  upon  us  such  a  re- 
version was  a  right  Prussian  artifice. 
War,  which  was  once  a  gallant  affair  of 


WAR  43 

parades  in  the  sunshine,  of  beautiful  uni- 
forms and  of  music,  war  they  have  ren- 
dered a  mean  and  ugly  thing.  They  wage 
it  like  burrowing  beasts,  and  obviously 
there  was  nothing  left  for  us  but  to  imi- 
tate them. 

In  the  meantime  here  and  there  heads 
look  out  from  the  excavations  to  see  who 
is  coming.  There  is  nothing  prehistoric 
about  these  heads,  any  more  than  there  is 
about  the  service-caps  they  are  wearing; 
these  are  the  faces  of  our  own  soldiers, 
with  an  air  of  health  and  good  himiour 
and  of  amusement  at  having  to  live  there 
like  rabbits.  A  sergeant  comes  up  to  us ; 
he  is  as  earthy  as  a  mole  that  has  not  had 
time  to  clean  itself,  but  he  has  a  merry 
look  of  youth  and  gaiety. 

^'Take  two  or  three  men  with  you/'  I 
say  to  him,  *'and  go  and  unpack  my  motor 
car,  down  there  behind  the  trees.  You  will 
find  a  thousand  packets  of  cigarettes  and 


44  WAR 

some  picture-papers  which  some  people  in 
Paris  have  sent  you  to  help  to  pass  the 
time  in  the  trenches. ' ' 

"What  a  pity  that  I  cannot  take  back 
and  show,  as  a  thanksgiving  to  the  kind 
donors,  the  smiles  of  satisfaction  with 
which  their  gifts  were  welcomed. 

Another  mile  or  two  have  still  to  be  cov- 
ered on  foot  before  we  reach  the  firing- 
line.  An  icy  wind  blows  from  the  forests 
opposite  that  are  yet  more  deeply  drowned 
in  black  mists,  forests  in  the  enemy's 
hands,  where  the  counterfeit  thunder- 
storm is  grumbling.  This  plain  with  its 
miserable  molehills  is  a  dismal  place  in 
the  twilight,  and  I  marvel  that  they  can 
be  so  gay,  these  dear  soldiers  of  ours,  in  the 
midst  of  the  desolation  surroimding  them. 

I  cross  this  piece  of  ground,  riddled  with 
holes ;  the  tempest  of  shot  has  spared  here 
and  there  a  tuft  of  grass,  a  little  moss,  a 
poor  flower.    The  first  place  I  reach  is  a 


WAR  45 

line  of  defence  in  course  of  construction, 
which  will  be  the  second  line  of  defence, 
to  meet  the  improbable  event  of  the  first 
line,  which  lies  farther  ahead,  having  to  be 
abandoned.  Our  soldiers  are  working  like 
navvies  with  shovels  and  picks  in  their 
hands.  They  are  all  resolute  and  happy, 
anxious  to  finish  their  work,  and  it  will 
be  formidable  indeed,  surrounded  as  it  is 
with  most  deadly  ambushes.  It  was  the 
Germans,  I  admit,  whose  scheming,  evil 
brains  devised  this  whole  system  of  gal- 
leries and  snares ;  but  we,  more  subtle  and 
alert  than  they,  have,  in  a  few  days, 
equalled  them,  if  we  have  not  beaten  them, 
at  their  own  game. 

A  mile  farther  on  is  the  first  line.  It  is 
full  of  soldiers,  for  this  is  the  trench  that 
must  withstand  the  shock  of  the  barbar- 
ians' onset;  day  and  night  it  is  always 
ready  to  bristle  with  rifles,  and  they  who 
hold  the  trench,  gone  to  earth  scarcely  for 


46  WAR 

a  moment,  know  that  they  may  expect  at 
any  minute  the  daily  shower  of  shells. 
Then  heads,  rash  enough  to  show  them- 
selves above  the  parapet,  will  be  shot 
away,  breasts  shattered,  entrails  torn. 
They  know,  too,  that  they  must  be  pre- 
pared to  encounter  at  any  unforeseen  hour, 
in  the  pale  sunlight  or  in  the  blackness  of 
midnight,  onslaughts  of  those  barbarians 
with  whom  the  forest  opposite  still  swarms. 
They  know  how  they  will  come  on  at  a 
run,  with  shouts  intended  to  terrify  them, 
linked  arm  in  arm  into  one  infuriated 
mass,  and  how  they  will  find  means,  as 
ever,  to  do  much  harm  before  death  over- 
takes them  entangled  in  our  barbed  wire. 
All  this  they  know,  for  they  have  ah^eady 
seen  it,  but  nevertheless  they  smile  a  seri- 
ous, dignified  smile.  They  have  been 
nearly  a  week  in  this  trench,  waiting  to 
be  relieved,  and  they  make  no  complaints. 
*'We  are  well  fed,"  they  say,  *'we  eat 


WAR  47 

when  we  are  hungry.  As  long  as  it  does 
not  rain  we  keep  ourselves  warm  at  night 
in  our  fox-holes  with  good  thick  blankets. 
But  not  all  of  us  yet  have  woollen  under- 
clothing for  the  winter,  and  we  shall  need 
it  soon.  When  you  go  back  to  Paris, 
Colonel,  perhaps  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to 
bring  this  to  the  notice  of  Government 
and  of  all  the  ladies  too,  who  are  working 
for  us.'' 

(** Colonel" — the  soldiers  have  no  other 
title  for  officers  with  five  rows  of  gold 
braid.  On  the  last  expedition  to  China  I 
had  already  been  called  colonel,  but  I  did 
not  expect,  alas!  that  I  should  be  called 
so  again  during  a  war  on  the  soil  of 
France.) 

These  men  who  are  talking  to  me  at  the 
edge  of,  or  actually  in,  the  trench  belong 
to  the  most  diverse  social  grades.  Some 
were  leisured  dandies,  some  artisans,  some 
day  labourers,  and  there  are  even  some 


48  WAR 

who  wear  their  caps  at  too  rakish  an  angle 
and  whose  language  smacks  of  the  ring, 
into  whose  past  it  is  better  not  to  pry  too 
curiously.  Yet  they  have  become  not  only 
good  soldiers,  but  good  men,  for  this  war, 
while  it  has  drawn  us  closer  together,  has 
at  the  same  time  purified  us  and  ennobled 
us.  This  benefit  at  least  the  Germans  will, 
involuntarily,  have  bestowed  upon  us,  and 
indeed  it  is  worth  the  trouble.  Moreover 
our  soldiers  all  know  to-day  why  they  are 
fighting,  and  therein  lies  their  supreme 
strength.  Their  indignation  will  inspire 
them  till  their  latest  breath. 

**When  you  have  seen,"  said  two  young 
Breton  peasants  to  me,  *'when  you  have 
seen  with  your  own  eyes  what  these  brutes 
do  in  the  villages  they  pass  through,  it  is 
natural,  is  it  not,  to  give  your  life  to  try 
to  prevent  them  from  doing  as  much  in 
your  own  home  ?" 

The  cannonade  roared  an  accompani- 


WAR  49 

ment  in  its  deep,  unceasing  bass  to  this 
ingenuous  statement. 

Now  this  is  the  spirit  that  prevails  in- 
exhaustibly from  one  end  of  the  fighting- 
line  to  the  other.  Everywhere  there  is  the 
same  determination  and  courage.  Whether 
here  or  there,  a  talk  with  any  of  these 
soldiers  is  equally  reassuring,  and  calls 
forth  the  same  admiration. 

But  it  is  strange  to  reflect  that  in  this 
twentieth  century  of  ours,  in  order  to  pro- 
tect ourselves  from  barbarism  and  hor- 
ror, we  have  had  to  establish  trenches  such 
as  these,  in  double  and  treble  lines,  cross- 
ing our  dear  country  from  east  to  west 
along  an  unbroken  front  of  hundreds  of 
miles,  like  a  kind  of  Great  Wall  of  China. 
But  a  hundred  times  more  formidable  than 
the  original  wall,  the  defence  of  the  Mon- 
golians, is  this  wall  of  ours,  a  wall  prac- 
tically subterranean,  which  winds  along 
stealthily,  manned  by  all  the  heroic  youth 

4 


50  WAR 

of  France,  ever  on  the  alert,  ever  in  the 
midst  of  bloodshed. 

The  twilight  this  evening,  under  the 
sullen  sky,  lingers  sadly,  and  will  not  come 
to  an  end.  It  appeared  to  me  to  begin  two 
hours  ago,  and  yet  it  is  still  light  enough 
to  see.  Before  us,  distinguishable  as  yet 
to  sight  or  imagination,  lie  two  sections  of 
a  forest,  unfolding  itself  beyond  range  of 
vision,  the  contours  of  its  more  distant  sec- 
tion almost  lost  in  darkness.  Colder  still 
grows  the  wind,  and  my  heart  contracts 
with  the  still  more  painful  impression  of 
a  backward  plunge,  without  shelter  and 
without  refuge,  into  primeval  barbarism. 

**  Every  evening  at  this  hour,  Colonel, 
for  the  last  week,  we  have  had  our  little 
shower  of  shells.  If  you  have  time  to  stay 
a  short  while  you  will  see  how  quickly  they 
fire  and  almost  without  aiming." 

As  for  time,  well,  I  have  really  hardly 
any  to  spare,  and,  besides,  I  have  had  other 


WAR  51 

opportunities  of  observing  how  quickly 
they  fire ' ' ahnost  without  aiming. ' '  Some- 
times it  might  be  mistaken  for  a  display 
of  fireworks,  and  it  is  to  be  supposed  that 
they  have  more  projectiles  than  they  know 
what  to  do  with.  Nevertheless  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  stay  a  few  minutes  longer  and 
to  witness  the  performance  again  in  their 
company. 

Ah !  to  be  sure,  a  kind  of  whirring  in  the 
air  like  the  flight  of  partridges — ^par- 
tridges travelling  along  very  fast  on  metal 
wings.  This  is  a  change  for  us  from  the 
muffled  voice  of  the  cannonade  we  heard 
just  before;  it  is  now  beginning  to  come 
in  our  direction.  But  it  is  much  too  high 
and  much  too  far  to  the  left — so  much  too 
far  to  the  left  that  they  surely  cannot  be 
aiming  at  us;  they  cannot  be  quite  so 
stupid.  Nevertheless  we  stop  talking  and 
listen  with  our  ears  pricked — a  dozen 
shells,  and  then  no  more. 


52  WAR 

*'They  have  finished,"  the  men  tell  me 
then;  *' their  hour  is  over  now,  and  it  was 
for  our  comrades  down  there.  You  have 
no  luck,  Colonel ;  this  is  the  very  first  time 
that  it  was  not  we  who  caught  it,  and,  be- 
sides, you  would  think  they  were  tired  this 
evening,  the  Boches." 

It  is  dark  and  I  ought  to  be  far  away. 
Moreover,  they  are  all  going  to  sleep,  for 
obviously  they  cannot  risk  showing  a  light ; 
cigarettes  are  the  limit  of  indulgence.  I 
shake  hands  with  a  whole  line  of  soldiers 
and  leave  them  asleep,  poor  children  of 
France,  in  their  dormitory,  which  in  the 
silence  and  darkness  has  grown  as  dismal 
as  a  long,  common  grave  in  a  cemetery. 


VI 

THE  PHANTOM  BASILICA 

October,  1914. 

To  gaze  upon  her,  our  legendary  and 
wonderful  basilica  of  France,  to  bid  her 
a  last  farewell  before  she  should  crumble 
away  to  her  inevitable  downfall,  I  had 
ordered  a  detour  of  two  hours  in  my  ser- 
vice motor  car  at  the  end  of  some  special 
duty  from  which  I  was  returning. 

The  October  morning  was  misty  and 
cold.  The  hillsides  of  Champagne  were 
deserted  that  day,  and  their  vineyards  with 
dark  brown  leaves,  wet  with  rain,  seemed 
to  be  wrapped  completely  in  a  kind  of 
shining  fleece.  We  had  also  passed  through 
a  forest,  keeping  our  eyes  open  and  our 
weapons  ready  in  case  of  a  meeting  with 
Uhlan  marauders. 

63 


54  WAR 

At  last,  far  away  in  the  fog,  uplifting 
all  its  great  height  above  a  sprinkling  of 
reddish  squares,  doubtless  the  roofs  of 
houses,  we  saw  the  form  of  a  mighty 
church.    This  was  evidently  the  basilica. 

At  the  entrance  to  Rheims  there  are  de- 
fences of  all  kinds;  stone  barriers, 
trenches,  chevaux  de  frise,  sentinels  with 
crossed  bayonets.  To  gain  admission  it  is 
not  sufficient  to  be  in  uniform  and  military 
accoutrements;  explanations  have  to  be 
made  and  the  countersign  given. 

In  the  great  city  where  I  am  a  stranger, 
I  have  to  ask  my  way  to  the  cathedral,  for 
it  is  no  longer  in  sight.  Its  lofty  grey 
silhouette,  which,  viewed  from  afar,  dom- 
inated everything  so  imposingly,  as  a 
castle  of  giants  would  dominate  the  houses 
of  dwarfs,  now  seems  to  have  crouched 
down  to  hide  itself. 

''To  get  to  the  cathedral,"  people  re- 
ply, "you  must  first  turn  to  the  right  over 


WAR  55 

there,  and  then  to  the  left,  and  then  to  the 
right,  etc." 

And  my  motor  car  plunges  into  the 
crowded  streets.  There  are  many  soldiers, 
regiments  on  the  march,  motor-ambu- 
lances in  single  file,  but  there  are  many 
ordinary  footfarers,  too,  unconcerned  as 
if  nothing  were  happening,  and  there  are 
even  many  well-dressed  women,  with 
prayer-books  in  their  hands,  in  honour  of 
Sunday. 

At  a  street-crossing  there  is  a  gathering 
of  people  in  front  of  a  house  whose  walls 
bear  signs  of  recent  damage,  the  reason 
being  that  a  shell  has  just  fallen  there. 
It  is  just  one  of  their  little  brutal  jests, 
so  to  speak ;  we  understand  the  situation, 
look  you;  it  is  a  simple  pastime,  just  a 
matter  of  killing  a  few  persons,  on  a  Sun- 
day morning  for  choice,  because  there  are 
more  people  in  the  streets  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings.   But  it  seems,  indeed,  as  if  this  town 


56  WAR 

had  reconciled  itself  to  its  lot,  to  live  its 
life  watched  by  the  remorseless  binoculars, 
under  the  fire  of  savages  lurking  on  the 
neighbouring  hillside.  The  wayfarers 
stop  for  a  moment  to  look  at  the  walls  and 
the  marks  made  by  the  shell-bursts,  and 
then  they  quietly  continue  their  Sunday 
walk.  This  time,  we  are  told,  it  is  women 
and  little  girls  who  lie  weltering  in  their 
blood,  victims  of  that  amiable  pleasantry. 
We  hear  about  it,  and  then  think  no  more 
of  the  matter,  as  if  it  were  of  the  smallest 
importance  in  times  such  as  these. 

This  quarter  of  the  town  is  now  deserted. 
Houses  are  closed ;  a  silence  as  of  mourn- 
ing prevails.  And  at  the  far  end  of  a 
street  appear  the  tall  grey  gates,  the  lofty 
pointed  arches  with  their  marvellous  carv- 
ings and  the  soaring  towers.  There  is  no 
sound;  there  is  not  a  living  soul  in  the 
square  where  the  phantom  basilica  still 
stands  in  majesty,  where  the  wind  blows 
cold  and  the  sky  is  dark. 


WAR  57 

The  basilica  of  Rheims  still  keeps  its 
place  as  if  by  miracle,  but  so  riddled  and 
rent  it  is,  that  it  seems  ready  to  collapse 
at  the  slightest  shock.  It  gives  the  im- 
pression of  a  huge  mummy,  still  erect  and 
majestic,  but  which  the  least  touch  would 
turn  into  ashes.  The  ground  is  strewn 
with  its  precious  fragments.  It  has  been 
hastily  enclosed  with  a  hoarding  of  white 
wood,  and  within  its  bounds  lies,  in  little 
heaps,  its  consecrated  dust,  fragments  of 
stucco,  shivered  panes  of  glass,  heads  of 
angels,  clasped  hands  of  saints,  male  and 
female.  The  calcined  stone-work  of  the 
tower  on  the  left,  from  top  to  bottom,  has 
assumed  a  strange  colour  like  that  of  baked 
flesh,  and  the  saints,  still  standing  upright 
in  rank  on  the  cornices,  have  been  decor- 
ticated, as  it  were,  by  fire.  They  have  no 
longer  either  faces  or  fingers,  yet,  still  re- 
taining their  human  form,  they  resemble 
corpses  ranged  in  rows,  their  contours  but 


58  WAR 

faintly  defined  under  a  kind  of  reddish 
shroud. 

We  make  a  circuit  of  the  square  with- 
out meeting  anyone,  and  the  hoarding 
which  isolates  the  fragile,  still  wonderful 
phantom  is  everywhere  firmly  closed. 

As  for  the  old  palace  attached  to  the 
basilica,  the  episcopal  palace  where  the 
kings  of  France  were  wont  to  repose  on 
the  day  of  their  coronation,  it  is  nothing 
more  than  a  ruin,  without  windows  or  roof, 
blackened  all  over  by  tongues  of  flame. 

What  a  peerless  jewel  was  this  church, 
more  beautiful  even  than  Notre-Dame  de 
Paris,  more  open  to  the  light,  more  ethe- 
real, more  soaringly  uplifted  with  its 
columns  like  long  reeds,  astonishingly 
fragile  considering  the  weight  they  bear, 
a  miracle  of  the  religious  art  of  France, 
a  masterpiece  which  the  faith  of  our  an- 
cestors had  wakened  into  being  in  all  its 
mystic  purity  before  the  sensual  ponder- 


WAR  59 

ousness  of  that  which  we  have  agreed  to 
call  the  Renaissance  had  come  to  us  from 
Italy,  materialising  and  spoiling  all.  Oh, 
how  gross,  how  cowardly,  how  imbecile 
was  the  brutality  of  those  who  fired  those 
volleys  of  scrap-iron  with  full  force 
against  tracery  of  such  delicacy,  that  had 
stayed  aloft  in  the  air  for  centuries  in 
confidence,  no  battles,  no  invasions,  no 
tempests  ever  daring  to  assail  its  beauty. 

That  great,  closed  house  yonder  in  the 
square  must  be  the  archbishop's  palace. 
I  venture  to  ring  at  the  door  and  request 
the  privilege  of  entering  the  church. 

**His  Eminence,"  I  am  told,  "is  at 
Mass,  but  would  soon  return,  if  I  would 
wait." 

And  while  I  am  waiting,  the  priest,  who 
acts  as  my  host,  tells  me  the  history  of  the 
burning  of  the  episcopal  palace. 

'*  First  of  all  they  sprinkled  the  roofs 
with  I  know  not  what  diabolical  prepara- 


60  WAR 

tion;  then,  when  they  threw  their  incen- 
diary bombs,  the  woodwork  burnt  like 
straw,  and  everywhere  you  saw  jets  of 
green  flame  which  burned  with  a  noise  like 
that  of  fireworks.'' 

Indeed  the  barbarians  had  long  prepared 
with  studied  foresight  this  deed  of  sac- 
rilege, in  spite  of  their  idiotically  absurd 
pretexts  and  their  shameless  denials.  That 
which  they  had  desired  to  destroy  here  was 
the  very  heart  of  ancient  France,  impelled 
as  much  by  some  superstitious  fancy  as  by 
their  own  brutal  instincts,  and  upon  this 
task  they  bent  their  whole  energy,  while  in 
the  rest  of  the  town  nothing  else,  or  almost 
nothing,  suffered  damage. 

''Could  no  attempt  be  made,"  I  ask,  ''to 
replace  the  burnt  roof  of  the  basilica,  to 
cover  over  as  soon  as  possible  these  arches, 
which  will  not  otherwise  withstand  the 
ravages  of  next  winter?" 

"Undoubtedly,"  he  replies,  "there  is  a 


WAR  61 

risk  that  at  the  first  falls  of  snow,  the  first 
showers  of  rain,  all  this  will  crumble  to 
ruins,  more  especially  as  the  calcined 
stones  have  lost  their  power  of  resistance. 
But  we  cannot  even  attempt  to  preserve 
them  a  little,  for  the  Germans  do  not  let 
us  out  of  their  sight.  It  is  the  cathedral, 
always  the  cathedral,  that  they  watch 
through  their  field-glasses,  and  as  soon  as 
a  single  person  appears  in  the  bell  turret 
of  a  tower  the  rain  of  shells  begins  again. 
No,  there  is  nothing  to  be  done.  It  must 
be  left  to  the  grace  of  God." 

On  his  return.  His  Eminence  graciously 
provides  me  with  a  guide,  who  has  the  keys 
of  the  hoarding,  and  at  last  I  penetrate 
into  the  ruins  of  the  basilica,  into  the  nave, 
which,  being  stripped  bare,  appears  the 
loftier  and  vaster  for  it. 

It  is  cold  there  and  sad  enough  for  tears. 
It  is  perhaps  this  unexpected  chill,  a  chill 
far  more  piercing  than  that  of  the  world 


62  WAR 

without,  which  at  first  grips  you  and  dis- 
concerts you.  Instead  of  the  somewhat 
heavy  perf  lune  that  generally  hangs  about 
old  basilicas,  smoke  of  so  much  incense 
burned  there,  emanations  of  so  many  biers 
blessed  by  the  priests,  of  so  many  genera- 
tions who  have  hastened  there  to  wrestle 
and  pray — instead  of  this,  there  is  a  damp, 
icy  wind  which  whistles  through  crevices 
in  the  walls,  through  broken  windows  and 
gaps  in  the  vaults.  Towards  those  vaults 
up  yonder,  pierced  here  and  there  by 
shrapnel,  the  eyes  are  raised,  immediately, 
instinctively,  to  gaze  at  them.  The  sight 
is  led  up  towards  them,  as  it  were,  by  all 
those  columns  that  jut  out,  shooting  aloft 
in  sheaves,  for  their  support.  They  have 
flying  curves,  these  vaults,  of  exquisite 
grace,  so  designed,  it  seems,  that  they  may 
not  hinder  prayers  in  their  upward  flight, 
nor  force  back  to  earth  a  gaze  that  aims 
at  heaven.   One  never  grows  tired  of  bend- 


WAR  63 

ing  the  head  backwards  to  gaze  at  them, 
those  sacred  vaults  hastening  to  destruc- 
tion. And  then  high  up,  too,  quite  high 
up,  throughout  the  whole  length  of  the 
nave,  is  the  long  succession  of  those  almost 
ethereal  pointed  arches  which  support  the 
vaults  and  arches,  alike,  yet  not  rigidly 
uniform,  and  so  harmonious,  despite  their 
elaborate  carving,  that  they  give  rest  to 
the  eye  that  follows  them  upwards  in  their 
soaring  perspective.  These  vast  ceilings 
of  stone  are  so  airy  in  appearance,  and 
moreover  so  distant,  that  they  do  not  op- 
press or  confine  the  spirit.  Indeed  they 
seem  freed  from  all  heaviness,  almost 
insubstantial. 

Moreover,  it  is  wiser  to  move  on  under 
that  roof  with  head  turned  upward  and 
not  to  watch  too  closely  where  the  feet  may 
fall,  for  that  pavement,  reverberating 
rather  sadly,  has  been  sullied  and  black- 
ened by  charred  human  flesh.   It  is  known 


64  WAR 

that  on  the  day  of  the  conflagration  the 
church  was  full  of  wounded  Germans  lying 
on  straw  mattresses,  which  caught  fire, 
and  a  scene  of  horror  ensued,  worthy  of 
a  vision  of  Dante;  all  these  beings,  their 
green  woimds  scorched  by  the  flames, 
dragged  themselves  along  screaming,  on 
red  stumps,  trying  to  win  through  doors 
too  narrow.  Renowned,  too,  is  the  heroism 
of  those  stretcher-bearers,  priests  and 
nuns,  who  risked  their  lives  in  the  midst  of 
falling  bombs  in  their  attempt  to  save 
these  unhappy  wretches,  whom  their  own 
German  brothers  had  not  even  thought  to 
spare.  Yet  they  did  not  succeed  in  saving 
all ;  some  remained  and  were  burnt  to  death 
in  the  nave,  leaving  unseemly  clots  of  blood 
on  the  sacred  flagstones,  where  formerly 
processions  of  kings  and  queens  had 
slowly  trailed  their  ermine  mantles  to  the 
sound  of  great  organs  and  plain-song. 
''Look,"  said  my  guide,  showing  me  a 


WAR  65 

wide  hole  in  one  of  the  aisles,  'HMs  is  the 
work  of  a  shell  which  they  hurled  at  us 
yesterday  evening.  And  now  come  and 
see  the  miracle. ' ' 

And  he  leads  me  into  the  choir  where 
the  statue  of  Joan  of  Arc,  preserved  it 
may  be  said  by  some  special  Providence, 
still  stands  unharmed,  with  its  eyes  of 
gentle  ecstasy. 

The  most  irreparable  disaster  is  the  ruin 
of  those  great  glass  windows,  which  the 
mysterious  artists  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury had  piously  wrought  in  meditation 
and  dreams,  assembling  together  in  hun- 
dreds, saints,  male  and  female,  with  trans- 
lucent draperies  and  luminous  aureoles. 
There  again  German  scrap-iron  has 
crashed  through  in  great  senseless  volleys, 
shattering  everything.  Irreplaceable  mas- 
terpieces are  scattered  on  the  flagstones  in 
fragments  that  can  never  be  reassembled 
— golds,  reds  and  blues,  of  which  the  secret 

5 


66  WAR 

has  been  lost.  Vanished  are  the  transpar- 
ent rainbow  colours,  perished  those  saintly 
personages,  in  the  pretty  simplicity  of 
their  attitudes,  with  their  small,  pale, 
ecstatic  faces;  a  thousand  precious  frag- 
ments of  that  glasswork,  which  in  the 
course  of  centuries  has  acquired  an  irides- 
cence something  in  the  manner  of  opals, 
lie  on  the  ground,  where  indeed  they  still 
shine  like  gems. 

To-day  there  is  silence  in  the  basilica, 
as  well  as  in  the  deserted  square  around 
it;  a  deathlike  silence  within  these  walls, 
which  for  so  long  had  vibrated  to  the  voice 
of  organs  and  the  old  ritual  chants  of 
France.  The  cold  wind  alone  makes  a  kind 
of  music  this  Sunday  morning,  and  at 
times  when  it  blows  harder  there  is  a 
tinkling  like  the  fall  of  very  light  pearls. 
It  is  the  falling  of  the  little  that  still  re- 
mained in  place  of  the  beautiful  glass  win- 
dows of  the  thirteenth  century,  crumbling 
away  entirely,  beyond  recovery. 


WAR  67 

A  whole  splendid  cycle  of  our  history 
which  seemed  to  live  in  the  sanctuary, 
with  a  life  almost  tangible,  though  essen- 
tially spiritual,  has  suddenly  been  plunged 
into  the  abyss  of  things  gone  by,  of  which 
even  the  memory  will  soon  pass  away. 
The  great  barbarism  has  swept  through 
this  place,  the  modern  barbarism  from 
beyond  the  Rhine,  a  thousand  times  worse 
than  the  barbarism  of  old  times,  because 
it  is  doltishly,  outrageously  self-satisfied, 
and  consequently  fundamental,  incurable, 
and  final — destined,  if  it  be  not  crushed, 
to  overwhelm  the  world  in  a  sinister  night 
of  eclipse. 

In  truth  it  is  strange  how  that  statue 
of  Joan  of  Arc  in  the  choir  has  remained 
standing  calm,  intact,  immaculate,  with- 
out even  the  smallest  scratch  upon  her 
sown. 


VII 

THE   FLAG  WHICH   OUR   NAVAL 
BRIGADE  DO  NOT  YET  POSSESS 

December,  1914. 
At  first  they  were  sent  to  Paris,  those 
dear  sailors  of  ours,  so  that  the  duty  of 
policing  the  city,  of  maintaining  order, 
enforcing  silence  and  good  behaviour 
might  be  entrusted  to  them — and  I  could 
not  help  smiling;  it  seemed  so  incongru- 
ous, this  entirely  new  part  which  someone 
had  thought  fit  to  make  them  play.  For 
truth  to  tell,  between  ourselves,  correct  be- 
haviour in  the  streets  of  towns  has  never 
been  the  especial  boast  of  our  excellent 
young  friends.  Nevertheless  by  dint  of 
making  up  their  minds  to  it  and  assuming 
an  air  of  seriousness,  they  had  acquitted 
themselves  almost  with  honour  up  to  the 

68 


WAR  69 

moment  when  they  were  freed  from  that 
insufferable  constraint  and  were  sent  out- 
side the  city  to  guard  the  posts  in  the  en- 
trenched camp.  That  was  already  a  little 
better,  a  little  more  after  their  own  hearts. 
At  last  came  a  day  of  rejoicing  and  glori- 
ous intoxication,  when  they  were  told  that 
they  were  all  going  into  the  firing-line. 

If  they  had  had  a  flag  that  day,  like  their 
comrades  of  the  land-forces,  I  will  not 
assert  that  they  would  have  marched  away 
with  more  enthusiasm  and  gaiety,  for  that 
would  have  been  impossible,  but  assuredly 
they  would  have  marched  more  proudly, 
mustered  around  that  sublime  bauble, 
whose  place  nothing  can  ever  take,  what- 
ever may  be  said  or  done.  Sailors,  more 
perhaps  than  other  men,  cherish  this  de- 
votion to  the  flag,  fostered  in  them  by  the 
touching  ceremonial  observed  on  our  ships, 
where  to  the  sound  of  the  bugle  the  flag 
is  unfurled  each  morning  and  furled  each 


70  WAR 

evening,  while  officers  and  crew  bare  their 
heads  in  silence,  in  reverent  salute. 

Yes,  they  would  have  been  well  pleased, 
our  Naval  Brigade,  to  have  had  a  flag 
wherewith  to  march  into  the  firing-line, 
but  their  officers  said  to  them : 

"You  will  certainly  be  given  one  in  the 
end,  as  soon  as  you  have  won  it  yonder. '* 

And  they  went  away  singing,  all  with 
the  same  ardour  of  heroes ;  all,  I  say,  not 
only  those  who  still  uphold  the  admirable 
traditions  of  our  Navy  of  old,  but  even  the 
new  recruits,  who  were  already  a  little 
corrupted — no  more  than  superficially, 
however — by  disgusting,  anti-military 
claptrap,  but  who  had  suddenly  recovered 
their  senses  and  were  exalted  at  the  sound 
of  the  German  guns.  All  were  united, 
resolute,  disciplined,  sobered,  and  dream- 
ing of  having  a  flag  on  their  return. 

They  were  sent  in  haste  to  Ghent  to 
cover  the  retreat  of  the  Belgian  Army, 


WAR  71 

but  on  the  way  they  were  stopped  at  Dix- 
mude,  where  the  barbarians  with  pink 
skins  like  boiled  pig  were  established  in 
ten  times  their  number,  and  where  at  all 
costs  a  stand  was  to  be  made  to  prevent 
the  abominable  onrush  from  spreading 
farther. 

They  had  been  told : 

*^The  part  assigned  to  you  is  one  of 
danger  and  gravity ;  we  have  need  of  your 
courage.  In  order  to  save  the  whole  of 
our  left  wing  you  must  sacrifice  yourselves 
until  reinforcements  arrive.  Try  to  hold 
out  at  least  four  days." 

And  they  held  out  twenty-six  mortal 
days.  They  held  out  almost  alone,  for 
reinforcements,  owing  to  unforeseen  diffi- 
culties, were  insufficient  and  long  in  com- 
ing. And  of  the  six  thousand  that  marched 
away,  there  are  to-day  not  more  than  three 
thousand  survivors. 

They  had  the  bare  necessities  of  life  and 


72  WAR 

hardly  those.  When  they  left  Paris,  where 
the  weather  was  warm  and  summery,  they 
did  not  anticipate  such  bitter  cold.  Most 
of  them  wore  nothing  over  their  chests 
except  the  regulation  jumper  of  cotton, 
striped  with  blue,  and  light  trousers,  with 
nothing  underneath,  on  their  legs,  and 
over  all  that,  it  is  true,  infantry  great- 
coats to  which  they  were  unaccustomed  and 
which  hampered  their  movements.  For 
provisions  they  had  nothing  but  some  tins 
of  confiture  de  singed  Naturally  no  one 
was  prepared  for  what  was  practically  iso- 
lation for  twenty-six  long  days.  In  the 
same  circumstances  ordinary  troops,  even 
though  their  peers  in  courage,  could  never 
have  been  equal  to  the  occasion.  But  they 
had  that  faculty  of  fighting  through,  com- 
mon to  seafaring  men,  which  is  acquired 
in  the  course  of  arduous  voyages,  in  the 
colonies,  among  the  islands,  and  thanks 

^  Military  slang  term  for  tins  of  preserved  meat. 


WAR  73 

to  which  a  true  sailor  can  face  any  emer- 
gency— a  special  way  with  them,  after  all 
so  natural  and  moreover  so  merry  withal, 
so  tempered  with  ingratiating  tact  that  it 
offends  nobody. 

Well,  then,  they  had  fought  through ;  for 
after  those  three  or  four  epic  weeks,  in 
which  day  and  night  they  had  battled  like 
devils,  in  fire  and  water,  the  survivors  were 
found  well-nourished,  almost,  and  with 
hardly  a  cold  among  them. 

The  only  reproach,  which  I  heard  ad- 
dressed to  them  by  their  officers,  who  had 
the  honour  to  command  them  in  the  midst 
of  the  furnace,  was  that  they  could  not 
reconcile  themselves  to  the  practice  of 
crawling.  Crawling  is  a  mode  of  pro- 
gression introduced  into  modern  warfare 
by  German  cunning,  and  it  is  well  known 
that  our  soldiers  have  to  be  prepared  for 
it  by  a  long  course  of  training.  Now  there 
had  not  been  time  to  accustom  these  men 


74  WAR 

to  the  practice,  and  when  it  came  to  an 
attack  they  set  out  indeed  as  ordered,  drag- 
ging themselves  along  on  all  fours,  but, 
promptly  carried  away  by  their  zeal,  they 
stood  up  to  get  into  their  stride,  and  too 
many  of  them  were  mown  down  by 
shrapnel. 

One  of  them  told  me  yesterday,  in  the 
words  I  now  quote,  how  his  company  hav- 
ing been  ordered  to  transfer  themselves 
to  another  part  of  the  battle  front — but 
without  letting  themselves  be  seen,  walking 
along,  bent  double,  at  the  bottom  of  a  long 
interminable  trench — were  really  unable 
to  obey  the  order  literally. 

*'The  trench  was  already  half  full  of 
our  poor  dead  comrades.  And  you  will 
understand,  sir,  that  in  places  where  there 
were  too  many  of  them,  it  would  have  hurt 
us  to  walk  on  them;  we  could  not  do  it. 
We  came  out  of  the  ditch,  and  ran  as  fast 
as  our  legs  would  carry  us  along  the  slope 


WAR  75 

of  the  parapet,  and  the  Boehes  who  saw  us 
made  haste  to  kill  us.  But, ' '  he  continued, 
*' except  for  trifling  acts  of  disobedience 
such  as  that,  I  assure  you,  sir,  that  we 
behaved  very  well.  Thus  I  remember 
some  officers  commanding  sharp-shooters 
and  some  officers  of  light  infantry,  who 
had  witnessed  the  Battles  of  the  Marne 
and  the  Aisne.  Well,  when  they  came 
sometimes  to  chat  with  our  officers,  we 
used  to  hear  them  say,  'Our  soldiers  they 
were  brave  fellows  enough,  to  be  sure !  But 
to  see  your  sailors  fighting  is  an  absolute 
eye-opener  all  the  same.'  " 

And  that  town  of  Dixmude,  where  they 
contrived  to  hold  out  for  twenty-six  days, 
became  by  degrees  something  like  an  ante- 
room of  hell.  There  were  rain,  snow, 
floods,  churning  up  black  mud  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  trenches;  blood  splashing  up 
everywhere;  roofs  falling  in,  crushing 
wounded  in  confused  heaps  or  dead  bodies 


76  WAR 

in  all  stages  of  decomposition;  cries  and 
death  rattles  unceasing,  mingling  with  the 
continual  crash  of  thunder  close  at  hand. 
There  was  fighting  in  every  street,  in  every 
house,  through  broken  windows,  behind 
fragments  of  walls — such  close  hand-to- 
hand  fighting  that  sometimes  men  were 
locked  together  trying  to  strangle  one  an- 
other. And  often  at  night,  when  already 
men  could  no  longer  tell  where  to  strike 
home,  there  were  bewildering  acts  of 
treachery  committed  by  Germans,  who 
would  suddenly  begin  to  shout  in  French : 

*' Cease  fire,  you  fools!  It  is  our  men 
who  are  there  and  you  are  firing  on  your 
own  comrades." 

And  men  lost  their  heads  entirely,  as  in 
a  nightmare,  from  which  they  could 
neither  rouse  themselves  nor  escape. 

At  last  came  the  day  when  the  town 
was  taken.  The  Germans  suddenly 
brought    up    terrific    reinforcements    of 


WAR  77 

heavy  artillery,  and  heavy  shells  fell  all 
round  like  hail — ^those  enormous  shells,  the 
devil's  own,  which  make  holes  six  to  eight 
yards  wide  by  four  yards  deep.  They 
came  at  the  rate  of  fifty  or  sixty  a  minute, 
and  in  the  craters  they  made  there  was  at 
once  a  jumbled  mass  of  masonry,  furni- 
ture, carpets,  corpses,  a  chaos  of  nameless 
horror.  To  continue  there  became  truly 
a  task  beyond  human  endurance ;  it  would 
have  meant  a  massacre  to  the  very  last 
man,  moreover  without  serving  any  useful 
purpose,  for  the  abandonment  of  that  mass 
of  ruins,  of  that  charnel-house,  which  was 
all  that  remained  of  the  poor  little  Flem- 
ish town,  was  no  longer  a  matter  of  impor- 
tance. It  had  resisted  just  the  necessary 
length  of  time.  The  essential  point  was 
that  the  Germans  had  been  prevented  from 
crossing  over  to  the  other  bank  of  the 
Yser,  at  a  time  when,  nevertheless,  all  the 
chances  had  seemed  in  their  favour;  the 


78  WAR 

essential  point  was  this  especially,  that 
they  would  never  at  any  time  cross  over, 
now  that  reinforcements  had  arrived  to 
hold  them  up  in  the  south,  and  now  that 
the  floods  were  encroaching  everywhere, 
barring  the  way  in  the  north.  On  this 
side  the  barbarians'  thrust  was  definitely 
countered.  And  it  was  our  Naval  Brigade, 
who  almost  by  themselves,  unwavering  in 
the  face  of  overwhelming  nmnbers,  had 
there  supported  our  left  wing,  though  los- 
ing half  of  their  effective  and  eighty  per 
cent,  of  their  officers. 

Then  they  said  to  themselves,  those  who 
were  left  of  them : 

*'Our  flag — we  shall  get  it  this  time.'' 
Besides,  officers  in  high  command, 
touched  and  amazed  at  so  much  bravery, 
had  promised  it  to  them,  and  so  had  the 
head  of  the  French  Government  himself, 
one  day  when  he  came  to  congratulate 
them. 


WAR  79 

But  alas !  they  have  not  yet  received  it, 
and  perhaps  it  will  never  be  theirs,  unless 
those  officers  in  high  command,  to  whom 
I  have  referred,  who  have  partly  pledged 
their  word,  intervene  while  there  is  yet 
time,  before  all  these  deeds  of  heroism  have 
fallen  into  oblivion. 

For  God's  sake  give  them  their  flag,  our 
Naval  Brigade !  And  even  before  sending 
it  to  them  it  would  be  well,  methinks,  to 
decorate  it  with  the  Cross. 

P.  S. — Last  week  the  Naval  Brigade 
were  mentioned  at  the  head  of  the  Army 
Orders  of  the  day,  for  having  given  proof 
of  the  greatest  energy  and  complete  de- 
votion to  duty  in  the  defence  of  a  strategic 
position  of  great  importance. 


VIII 

TAHITI  AND  THE  SAVAGES  WITH 
PINK  SKINS  LIKE  BOILED  PIG 

November,  1914. 
After  the  lapse  of  so  many  years,  and 
in  the  midst  of  those  moods  of  rage  and 
anguish  or  of  splendid  exaltation  which 
characterise  the  present  hour,  I  had  quite 
forgotten  the  existence  of  a  certain  en- 
chanted isle,  very  far  away,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  earth,  in  the  midst  of  the  great 
Southern  Ocean,  rearing  among  the  warm 
clouds  of  those  regions  its  mountains,  car- 
peted with  ferns  and  flowers.  In  our  Oc- 
tober climate,  already  cold,  here  in  this 
district  of  Paris,  bare  of  leaves  and  in 
autumn  colouring,  where  I  have  lived  for 
a  month,  whence  you  have  but  to  with- 
draw a  little  way  to  the  north  in  order  to 

80 


WAR  81 

hear  the  cannon  crashing  incessantly  like 
a  storm,  and  where  each  day  countless 
graves  are  prepared  for  the  burial  of  the 
most  precious  and  cherished  sons  of 
France — here  the  name  of  Tahiti  seems 
to  me  the  designation  of  some  visionary 
Eden.  I  can  no  longer  bring  myself  to 
believe  that  my  sojourn  in  former  days 
in  that  far-away  island  was  an  actual  fact. 
It  is  with  an  effort  that  I  recall  to  my 
memory  that  sea,  bordered  with  beaches 
of  pure  white  coral,  the  palm  trees  with 
arching  fronds,  and  the  Maoris  living  in 
a  perpetual  dream,  a  childlike  race  with 
no  thought  beyond  singing  and  garland- 
ing themselves  with  flowers. 

Tahiti,  the  island  of  which  I  had  thought 
no  more,  has  just  been  abruptly  recalled 
to  my  mind  by  an  article  in  a  newspaper, 
in  which  it  is  stated  that  the  Germans  have 
passed  that  way,  pillaging  everything. 
And  the  commander  of  the  two  cruisers, 

6 


82  WAR 

who,  without  ninning  any  risk  to  them- 
selves, be  it  understood,  committed  this 
dastardly  outrage  on  a  poor  little  open 
town  lying  there  all  unsuspecting,  cannot 
claim  to  have  had  any  order  issued  to  them 
from  their  horrible  Emperor — no,  indeed, 
since  they  were  at  the  other  end  of  the 
world.  All  by  themselves  they  had  found 
this  thing  to  do,  and  of  their  own  accord 
they  did  it,  from  sheer  Teutonic  savagery. 

Yesterday  in  one  of  the  forts  of  Paris 
garrisoned  by  our  sailors,  I  met  an  old 
naval  petty  officer  who,  in  former  days, 
had  on  two  or  three  occasions  sailed  under 
my  orders.  He  seems  to  me  to  have  found 
the  name  most  appropriate  to  the  Prus- 
sians and  one  that  deserves  to  stick  to 
them. 

*'Well  you  see,  Commander, '^  he  said  to 
me,  **you  and  I  have  often  visited  together 
all  kinds  of  savages  whom  I  should  have 
thought  the  biggest  brutes  of  all,  savages 


WAR  83 

with  black  skins,  with  yellow  skins,  or  with 
red  skins,  but  I  now  see  clearly  that  there 
is  another  sort  still — those  other  dirty  sav- 
ages with  pink  skins  like  boiled  pig,  who 
are  much  the  worst  of  all.'' 

And  so  Tahiti  the  Delectable,  where 
blood  had  never  before  been  shed,  a  little 
Eden,  harmless  and  confiding,  set  in  the 
midst  of  mighty  oceans — Tahiti  has  just 
suffered  the  visitation  of  savages  with  pink 
skins  like  boiled  pig.  So  without  profit, 
as  without  excuse,  simply  for  the  sport  of 
the  thing,  for  the  pure  German  pleasure 
of  wreaking  as  much  evil  as  possible,  never 
mind  upon  whom,  never  mind  where,  these 
savages,  indeed  'Hhat  worst  kind  of  all," 
amused  themselves  by  making  a  heap  of 
ruins  in  that  Bay  of  Papeete  with  its 
eternal  calm,  under  trees  ever  green, 
among  roses  ever  in  flower. 

It  is  true  this  happened  in  the  Antip- 
odes, and  it  is  so  trifling,  so  very  trifling 


84  WAR 

a  matter,  compared  with  the  smoking 
charnel-houses  which  in  Belgium  and 
France  were  landmarks  in  the  track  of  the 
accursed  army.  But  nevertheless  it  is  es- 
pecially deserving  of  being  brought  up 
again  as  a  still  more  peculiarly  futile  and 
fatuous  act  of  ferocity. 


IX 

A  LITTLE  HUSSAR 

December,  1914. 

His  name  was  Max  Barthou.  He  was 
one  of  those  dearly  loved  only  sons  whose 
death  shatters  two  or  three  lives  at  least, 
and  already  we  had  too  nearly  forgotten 
all  the  skill  and  courage  on  his  father's 
part  to  which  we  owed  the  Three  Years' 
Service  Bill,  without  which  all  France  to- 
day would  be  prostrate  under  the  heel  of 
the  Monster. 

To  be  sure  he,  young  Max,  had  done  no 
more  than  all  those  thousands  of  others 
who  have  given  their  lives  so  gloriously. 
It  is  not,  then,  on  that  account  that  I  have 
chosen  to  speak  of  him  in  a  special  man- 
ner. No;  one  of  my  chief  reasons,  no 
doubt,  is  that  his  parents  are  very  dear 

85 


86  WAR 

friends  of  mine.  But  it  is  also  for  the 
sake  of  the  boy  himself,  for  whom  I  had  a 
great  affection ;  moreover,  I  take  a  melan- 
choly pleasure  in  mentioning  what  a 
charming  little  fellow  he  was.  In  the  first 
place  he  had  contrived  to  remain  a  child, 
like  boys  of  my  own  generation  long  ago, 
and  this  is  very  rare  among  young  Par- 
isians of  to-day,  most  of  whom,  although 
this  sort  of  thing  is  now  being  brought 
under  control,  are  at  eighteen  insufferable 
little  wiseacres.  To  remain  a  child !  How 
much  that  implies,  not  freshness  alone,  but 
modesty,  discernment,  good  sense,  and 
clear  judgment  I  Although  he  was  very 
learned,  almost  beyond  his  years,  he  had 
contrived  to  remain  simple,  natural,  de- 
voted to  hearth  and  home,  which  he  sel- 
dom left  for  more  than  a  few  hours  in  the 
day,  when  he  went  to  attend  his  lectures. 
During  my  flying  visits  to  Paris,  when 
I  chanced  to  be  dining  with  his  parents 


WAR  87 

on  special  days  as  their  only  guest,  I  used 
to  talk  to  him  in  spite  of  the  charming 
shyness  he  displayed,  and  each  time  I  ap- 
preciated still  more  deeply  his  gentle,  pro- 
found young  soul.  I  can  still  see  him  after 
dinner  in  the  familiar  drawing-room, 
where  he  would  linger  with  us  for  a  mo- 
ment before  going  away  to  finish  his  stud- 
ies. On  those  occasions,  unconventional 
though  it  may  have  been,  he  would  lean 
against  his  mother's  knee  so  as  to  be  closer 
to  her,  or  even  lie  on  the  rug  at  her  feet, 
still  playing  the  part  of  a  coaxing  child, 
teasing  the  while — oh,  very  gently,  to  be 
sure — an  old  Siamese  cat  which  had  been 
the  companion  of  his  earliest  years  and 
now  growled  at  everyone  except  him.  Good 
God,  it  was  only  yesterday!  It  was  only 
last  spring  that  this  little  hero,  who  has 
just  fallen  a  victim  to  German  shrapnel, 
would  tumble  about  on  the  floor,  plajdng 
with  his  friend,  the  old  growling  cat. 


88  WAR 

But  what  a  transformation  in  those 
three  months !  It  is  scarcely  a  week  since 
I  met  in  a  lobby  at  General  Headquarters 
a  smart  and  resolute  blue  hussar,  who, 
after  having  saluted  correctly,  stood  look- 
ing at  me,  not  venturing  to  address  me,  but 
surprised  that  I  did  not  speak  to  him. 
Ah !  to  be  sure,  it  was  young  Max,  whom, 
at  first  sight,  I  had  not  recognised  in  his 
new  kit — a  young  Max  of  eighteen,  greatly 
changed  by  the  magic  wand  of  war,  for 
he  had  suddenly  grown  into  a  man,  and 
his  eyes  now  shone  with  a  sobered  joy.  At 
last  he  had  obtained  his  heart's  desire; 
to-morrow  he  was  to  set  out  for  Alsace  for 
the  firing-line. 

*'So  you  have  got  what  you  wanted,  my 
young  friend,"  I  said  to  him.  "Are  you 
pleased?'' 

"Oh  yes,  I  am  pleased." 

That,  to  be  sure,  was  clear  from  his 
appearance,  and  I  bade  him  good-bye  with 


WAE  89 

a  smile,  wishing  him  the  luck  to  win  that 
splendid  medal,  that  most  splendid  of  all 
medals,  which  is  fastened  with  a  yellow 
ribbon  bordered  with  green.  I  had  indeed 
no  foreboding  that  I  had  just  shaken  his 
hand  for  the  last  time. 

What  insinuating  perseverance  he  had 
brought  to  bear  in  order  that  he  might 
get  to  the  Front,  for  his  father,  though 
to  be  sure  he  would  have  made  no  attempt 
to  keep  him  back,  had  a  horror  of  doing 
anything  to  force  on  his  destiny,  and  only 
yielded  step  by  step,  glad  of  heart,  yet 
at  the  same  time  in  agony  at  seeing  his 
boy's  splendid  spirit  developing  so 
rapidly. 

First  of  all  he  had  to  let  him  volunteer ; 
then  when  the  boy  was  chafing  with  im- 
patience in  the  depots  where  our  sons  are 
trained  for  the  firing-line  he  had  to  obtain 
permission  for  him  to  leave  before  his 
turn.    The  commander-in-chief,  who  had 


90  WAR 

welcomed  him  with  pleasure,  had  wished 
to  keep  him  by  his  side,  but  he  protested, 
gently  but  firmly,  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit 
his  father  paid  to  the  general  head- 
quarters. 

'^I  feel  too  much  sheltered  here,  which 
is  absurd  considering  the  name  I  bear. 
Ought  I  not,  on  the  contrary,  to  set  an 
example?'' 

And  with  a  sudden  return  to  that  child- 
like gaiety  which  he  had  had  the  exquisite 
grace  to  preserve,  hidden  under  his  sol- 
dier's uniform,  he  added  with  the  smile  of 
old  days: 

''Besides,  papa,  as  the  son  of  the  Three 
Years'  Service  Bill,  it  is  up  to  me  to  do 
at  least  three  times  as  much  of  it  as  any- 
one else." 

His  father,  need  I  say,  understood — 
understood  with  all  his  heart — understood 
so  well  that,  divided  between  pride  and 
distress,  he  asked  immediately  that  the  boy 
might  be  sent  to  Alsace. 


WAR  91 

And  he  had  scarcely  arrived  yonder — 
at  Thann,  on  the  day  of  a  bombardment — 
when  a  senseless  volley  of  Geimany  shrap- 
nel, whence  it  came  none  knew,  without 
any  military  usefulness,  and  simply  for 
the  pleasure  of  doing  harm,  shattered  him 
like  a  thing  of  no  account.  He  had  no 
time  to  do ' '  thrice  as  much  as  anyone  else, ' ' 
alas  no !  In  less  than  a  minute  that  young 
life,  so  precious,  so  tenderly  cherished,  was 
extinguished  for  ever. 

Four  others,  companions  of  his  dream 
of  glory,  fell  at  his  side,  killed  by  the  same 
shell,  and  the  next  day  they  were  all  com- 
mitted to  the  care  of  that  earth  of  Alsace 
which  had  once  more  become  French. 

And  in  his  honour,  poor  little  blue  hus- 
sar, the  people  of  Thann,  who  since  yester- 
day were  German  no  longer,  desired  of 
their  own  accord  to  make  some  special 
demonstration,  because  he  was  the  son  of 
the  Three  Years'   Service   Bill.     These 


92  WAE 

Alsatians,  released  from  bondage,  had  the 
fancy  to  adorn  his  coffin  with  gilding, 
simple  but  charming,  as  if  for  a  little 
prince  in  a  fairy-tale,  and  they  carried  him 
in  their  arms,  him  alone,  while  his  com- 
panions were  borne  along  behind  him  on 
a  cart. 

After  the  service  in  the  old  church  the 
whole  assembly,  at  least  three  thousand  in 
number,  were  warned  that  it  would  be  ex- 
ceedingly dangerous  to  go  any  farther.  As 
the  cemetery  was  in  an  exposed  position, 
spied  upon  by  German  binoculars,  the  long 
procession  ran  a  great  risk  of  attracting 
the  barbarians'  shrapnel  fire,  for  it  was 
unlikely  that  they  would  miss  such  an 
excellent  opportunity  of  taking  life.  But 
no  one  was  afraid,  no  one  stayed  behind, 
and  the  little  hussar  was  escorted  by  them 
all  to  the  very  end. 

And  there  are  thousands  and  thousands 
of  our  sons  mown  down  in  this  manner — 


WAR  93 

sons  from  villages  or  castles,  who  were  all 
the  hope  of,  all  that  made  life  worth  liv- 
ing for,  mothers,  fathers,  grandfathers, 
and  grandmothers.  Night  and  day  for  eigh- 
teen years,  twenty  years,  they  had  been 
surrounded  with  every  care,  brooded  over 
with  all  tenderness.  Anxious  eyes  had 
watched  unremittingly  their  physical  and 
moral  growth.  For  some  of  them,  of 
humbler  families,  heavy  sacrifices  had 
necessarily  to  be  made  and  privations  en- 
dured so  that  their  health  might  be  assured 
and  their  minds  have  scope  to  expand,  to 
gain  knowledge  of  the  world,  to  be  en- 
riched with  beautiful  impressions.  And 
then,  suddenly,  there  they  are,  these  dear 
boys,  prepared  for  life  with  such  pains- 
taking love ;  there  they  are,  beloved  young 
heroes,  with  shattered  breast  or  brains 
blown  out — by  order  of  that  damnable 
Jack-pudding  who  rules  in  Berlin. 
Oh,  execrations  and  curses  upon  the 


94  WAE 

monster  of  ferocity  and  trickery  who  has 
unchained  all  this  woe!  May  his  life  he 
greatly  prolonged  so  that  he  may  at  least 
have  time  to  suffer  greatly;  and  after- 
wards may  he  still  live  on  and  remain  fully 
conscious  and  lucid  of  intellect  in  the  hour 
when  he  shall  cross  the  threshold  of  eter- 
nity, where  upon  that  door,  which  will 
never  again  be  opened,  may  be  read,  flam- 
ing in  the  darkness,  that  sentence  of  utmost 
horror,  ^^All  hope  abandon,  ye  who  enter 
here.*' 


X 

AN  EVENING  AT  YPRES 

''In  anticipation  of  death  I  make  this 
confession,  that  I  despise  the  German  na- 
tion on  account  of  its  infinite  stupidity, 
and  that  I  blush  to  belong  to  it.'' 

Schopenhauer. 

''The  character  of  the  Germans  presents  . 
a  terrible  blend  of  ferocity  and  trickery.  ' 
They  are  a  people  of  born  liars.  One  must  | 
see  this  to  believe  it." 

Velleius  Paterculus, 
In  the  year  10  of  the  Christian  era. 

March,  1915. 

Ruins  in  a  mournful  light  which  is 

anxious,  seemingly,  to  fade  away  into  a 

premature  darkness.   Vast  ruins,  ruins  of 

such  delicacy!    Here  is  a  deployment  of 

95 


96  WAR 

those  exquisite,  slender  colonnades  and 
those  archways  of  mysterious  charm, 
which  at  first  sight  conjure  up  for  the 
mind  the  Middle  Ages  and  Gothic  Art  in 
its  fair  but  transient  blossoming.  But  in 
general,  surviving  specimens  of  that  Art 
were  only  to  be  found  in  isolated  examples, 
in  the  form  of  some  old  church  or  old 
cloister,  surroimded  by  things  of  modern 
growth,  whereas  at  Ypres,  there  is  an  en- 
semble; first  a  cathedral  with  additions  of 
complicated  supplementary  buildings,  that 
might  be  called  palaces,  whose  long  f  agades 
with  their  clock-towers  present  to  the  eye 
their  succession  of  windows  with  pointed 
arches.  As  an  architectiu^al  group  it  is 
almost  unique  in  the  world,  actually  a 
whole  quarter  of  a  town,  built  in  little 
columns,  little  arches  and  archaic  stone 
tracery. 

The  sky  is  low,  gloomy,  tormented,  as 
in  dreams.    The  actual  night  has  not  yet 


WAR  97 

begun  to  fall,  but  the  thick  clouds  of  north- 
ern winters  cast  upon  the  earth  this  kind 
of  yellowish  obscurity.  Round  about  the 
lofty  ruins,  the  open  spaces  are  full  of 
soldiers  standing  still,  or  slowly  making 
their  rounds,  all  with  a  certain  air  of  seri- 
ousness, as  if  remembering  or  expecting 
some  event,  of  which  everyone  is  aware, 
but  which  no  one  discusses.  There  are 
also  women  poorly  dressed,  with  anxious 
faces,  and  little  children,  but  the  humble 
population  of  civilians  is  merged  in  a 
crowd  of  rough  uniforms,  almost  all  of 
them  faded  and  coated  with  earth,  obvi- 
ously returned  after  prolonged  engage- 
ments. The  yellow  khaki  uniforms  of  the 
English  and  the  almost  black  uniform  of 
the  Belgians  mingle  with  the  ''horizon'' 
blue  of  greatcoats  worn  by  our  French  sol- 
diers, who  are  in  a  majority;  all  these  dif- 
ferent shades  blend  into  an  almost  neutral 
colour  scheme,  and  two  or  three  red  bur- 

7 


98  :WAR 

nouses  of  Arab  chiefs  strike  a  vivid  note, 
unexpected,  disconcerting,  in  that  crowd, 
coloured  like  the  misty  winter  evening. 

Here  are  ruins  indeed,  but  on  closer  in- 
spection, inexplicable  ruins,  for  their  col- 
lapse seems  to  date  from  yesterday,  and 
the  crevices  and  gaps  are  unnaturally 
white  among  the  greyish  tints  of  the  fa- 
cades or  towers,  and  here  and  there, 
through  broken  windows,  on  the  interior 
walls  is  visible  the  glittering  of  gilding. 
Indeed  it  is  not  time  that  has  wrought 
these  ravages — time  had  spared  these 
wonders — nor  yet  until  our  own  days,  even 
in  the  midst  of  the  most  terrible  upheavals 
and  most  ruthless  conquest,  had  men  ever 
attempted  to  destroy  them.  No  one  had 
dared  the  deed  until  the  coming  of  those 
savages,  who  are  still  there,  close  at  hand, 
crouching  in  their  holes  of  muddy  earth, 
perfecting  each  day  their  idiotic  work,  and 
multiplying  their  volleys  of  scrap-iron. 


WAR  99 

wreaking  their  vengeance  on  these  sacred 
objects  whenever  they  are  seized  again  by 
an  access  of  rage  in  consequence  of  a  new 
repulse. 

Near  the  mutilated  cathedral,  that  pal- 
ace of  a  hundred  windows,  which  in  the 
main  still  stands,  is  the  famous  Cloth  Hall, 
built  when  Flanders  was  at  the  height  of 
her  glory,  a  building  vulgarised  in  all  its 
aspects  by  reproductions,  ever  since  the 
vindictiveness  of  the  barbarians  rendered 
it  still  more  famous.  One  November  night, 
it  will  be  remembered,  it  blazed  with  sin- 
ister magnificence,  side  by  side  with  the 
church  and  the  precious  buildings  sur- 
rounding it,  illuminating  with  a  red  light 
all  the  open  country.  The  Germans  had 
brought  up  in  its  honour  the  best  that  they 
could  muster  of  incendiary  material ;  their 
benzine  bombs  consumed  the  Hall  and  then 
all  that  it  contained ;  all  the  treasures  that 
had  been  preserved  there  for  centuries, 


100  WAR 

its  state-rooms,  its  wainscoting,  its  pict- 
ures, its  books,  all  burned  like  straw.  Now 
that  it  is  bereft  of  its  lofty  roof  it  has  ac- 
quired something  rather  Venetian  and  sur- 
prising in  its  appearance,  with  its  long 
fagades  pierced  with  uninterrupted  rows 
of  floreated  pointed  arches.  In  the  midst 
of  its  irremediable  disorder,  it  is  strange 
and  charming.  The  sjrmmetrical  turrets, 
slender  as  minarets,  set  in  the  angles  of 
the  walls,  have  hitherto  escaped  those  in- 
sensate bombs  and  rise  up  more  boldly 
than  ever,  whereas  the  woodwork  of  the 
pointed  roofs  no  longer  soars  with  them 
up  into  the  air.  But  the  belfry  in  the 
centre,  which  ever  since  the  Middle*  Ages 
has  kept  watch  over  the  plains,  is  to-day 
hatefully  disfigured,  its  summit  clean  cut 
off,  shattered,  cleft  from  top  to  bottom.  It 
is  scarcely  in  a  condition  to  offer  further 
resistance ;  a  few  more  shells,  and  it  will 
collapse  in  one  mass.    On  one  of  its  sides, 


WAR  101 

very  high  up,  still  hangs  the  monumental 
dial  of  a  ruined  clock,  of  which  the  hands 
point  persistently  to  twenty-five  minutes 
past  four — doubtless  the  tragic  moment 
at  which  this  giant  among  Flemish  belfries 
received  its  death  blow. 

Around  the  great  square  of  Ypres,  where 
these  glories  of  past  ages  had  so  long  been 
preserved  for  us  intact,  several  houses, 
the  majority  of  them  of  ancient  Flemish 
architecture,  have  been  eviscerated  in  like 
manner,  without  object,  without  excuse, 
their  interior  visible  from  outside  through 
great,  gaping  holes.  But  this  the  barbar- 
ians did  not  do  on  purpose ;  it  was  merely 
that  they  happened  to  be  too  near,  these 
houses,  too  closely  adjacent  to  the  targets 
they  had  chosen,  the  cathedral  and  the  old 
palace.  It  is  known  that  everywhere  here, 
as  at  Louvain,  at  Arras,  at  Soissons,  at 
Rheims,  their  greatest  delight  is  to  direct 
their  fire  at  public  buildings,  ruining  again 


102  WAR 

and  again  all  that  is  famous  for  beauty, 
art  or  memories.  So  then,  except  for  its 
historic  square,  the  town  of  Ypres  has  not 
suffered  very  greatly.  Ah,  but  wait!  I 
was  forgetting  the  hospital  yonder,  which 
likewise  served  them  for  target;  for  the 
matter  of  that  the  Germans  have  notori- 
ously a  preference  for  bombarding  places 
of  refuge,  shelters  for  wounded  and  sick, 
ambulances,  first-aid  stations  and  Red 
Cross  wagons. 

These  acts  of  destruction,  transforming 
into  a  rubbish  heap  that  tranquil  country 
of  Belgium,  which  was  above  everything 
an  incomparable  museum,  all  are  agreed 
to  stigmatise  as  a  base,  ignoble  crime.  But 
it  is  more  than  that,  it  is  a  masterpiece 
of  the  crassest  stupidity — the  stupidity 
that  Schopenhauer  himself  could  not  for- 
bear to  publish  in  the  frank  outburst 
evoked  by  his  last  moments ;  for  after  all 
it  amounts  to  signing  and  initialling  the 


WAR  103 

ignominy  of  Germany  for  the  edification 
of  neutrals  and  of  generations  to  come. 
The  bodies  of  men  tortured  and  hanged, 
of  women  and  children  shot  or  mutilated, 
will  soon  moulder  away  completely  in  their 
poor,  nameless  graves,  and  then  the  world 
will  remember  them  no  more.  But  these 
imperishable  ruins,  these  innumerable 
ruins  of  museums  or  churches,  what  over- 
whelming and  damning  evidence  they  are, 
and  how  everlasting ! 

After  having  done  all  this  it  is  perhaps 
still  more  foolish  to  deny  it,  to  deny  it  in 
the  very  face  of  such  incontrovertible  evi- 
dence, to  deny  it  with  an  effrontery  that 
leaves  us  Frenchmen  aghast,  or  even  to  in- 
vent pretexts  at  whose  childish  imbecility 
we  can  only  shrug  our  shoulders.  **A 
people  of  born  liars,'*  said  the  Latin 
writer.  Yes,  and  a  people  who  will  never 
eradicate  their  original  vices,  a  people  who, 
moreover,  actually  dared,  despite  the  most 


104  WAE 

irrefutable  written  docTiments,  to  deny  the 
premeditation  of  their  crimes  and  the 
treachery  of  their  attack.  What  absurd 
childishness  they  reveal  in  their  impos- 
tures! And  who  can  be  the  simpletons 
whom  they  hope  to  deceive  ? 

The  light  is  still  fading  upon  the  deso- 
late ruins  of  Ypres,  but  how  slowly  to-day ! 
That  is  because  even  at  noon  the  light  was 
scarcely  stronger  on  this  dull  day  of 
March ;  only  at  this  hour  a  certain  atmos- 
phere, indefinite  and  sad,  broods  upon  the 
distant  landscape,  indicating  the  approach 
of  night. 

They  look  instinctively  at  the  ruins, 
these  thousands  of  soldiers,  taking  their 
evening  walk  in  such  melancholy  surround- 
ings, but  generally  they  remain  at  a  dis- 
tance, leaving  the  ruins  to  their  magnifi- 
cent isolation.  However,  here  are  three  of 
them.  Frenchmen,  probably  new-comers, 
who  approach  the  ruins  hesitatingly.  They 


WAR  105 

advance  until  they  stand  under  the  little 
arches  of  the  tottering  cathedral  with  a 
soher  air,  as  if  they  were  visiting  tombs. 
After  contemplating  them  at  first  in  si- 
lence, one  of  them  suddenly  ejaculates  a 
term  of  abuse  (to  whom  it  is  addressed 
may  be  easily  imagined!),  doubtless  the 
most  insulting  he  can  find  in  the  French 
language,  a  word  that  I  had  not  expected, 
which  first  makes  me  smile  and  then,  the 
next  moment,  impresses  me  on  the  con- 
trary as  a  valuable  discovery. 

*  *  Oh  those  hooligans ! ' ' 

Here  the  intonation  is  missing,  for  I  am 
unable  to  reproduce  it,  but  in  truth  the 
compliment,  pronounced  as  he  pronounced 
it,  seems  to  me  something  new,  worth  add- 
ing to  all  the  other  epithets  applied  to 
Germans,  which  are  always  pitched  in  too 
low  a  key  and  moreover  too  refined ;  and 
he  continues  to  repeat,  indignant  little  sol- 
dier that  he  is,  stamping  with  rage : 


106  WAR 

**0h  those  hooligans  among  hooligans!" 
At  last  the  fall  of  night  is  upon  us,  the 
true  night,  which  will  put  an  end  here 
to  all  signs  of  life.  The  crowd  of  soldiers 
gradually  melts  away  along  streets  already 
dark,  which,  for  obvious  reasons,  will  not 
be  lighted.  In  the  distance  the  sound  of 
the  bugle  summons  them  to  their  evening 
soup  in  houses  or  barracks,  where  they 
will  fall  asleep  with  no  sense  of  security, 
certain  of  being  awakened  at  any  moment 
by  shells,  or  by  those  great  monsters  that 
explode  with  a  crash  like  thunder.  Poor, 
brave  children  of  France,  wrapped  in  their 
bluish  overcoats,  none  can  foresee  at  what 
hour  death  will  be  hurled  at  them,  from 
afar,  blindly,  through  the  misty  darkness 
— for  the  most  playful  fancy  presides  over 
this  bombardment;  now  it  is  an  endless 
rain  of  fire,  now  only  a  single  shell  which 
comes  and  kills  at  haphazard.  And  pa- 
tiently awaiting  the  rest  of  the  great  drama 


WAR  107 

lie  the  ruins,  enveloped  in  silence.  Here  and 
there  a  little  timid  light  appears  in  some 
house  still  inhabited,  where  the  windows 
are  pasted  over  with  paper  to  enable  them 
to  resist  the  shock  of  explosions  close  at 
hand,  and  where  the  air-holes  of  the  cel- 
lars of  refuge  are  protected  by  sandbags. 
Who  would  believe  it?  Stubborn  people, 
people  too  old  or  too  poor  to  flee,  have  re- 
mained at  Ypres,  and  others  even  are  be- 
ginning to  return,  with  a  kind  of  fatalistic 
resignation. 

The  cathedral  and  the  great  belfry  pro- 
ject only  their  silhouettes  against  the  sky, 
and  these  seem  to  have  been  congealed, 
gesturing  with  broken  arms.  As  the  night 
enfolds  the  world  more  completely  in  its 
thick  mists,  memory  conjures  up  the 
mournful  surroundings  in  which  Ypres  is 
now  lost,  deep  plains  unpeopled  and  soon 
plunged  in  darkness,  roads  broken  up,  im- 
passable for  fugitives,  fields  blotted  out  or 


108  WAR 

mantled  with  snow,  a  network  of  trenches 
where  our  soldiers,  alas !  are  suffering  cold 
and  discomfort,  and  so  near,  hardly  a  can- 
non-shot away,  those  other  ditches,  more 
grim,  more  sordid,  where  men  of  ineradi- 
cable savagery  are  watching,  always  ready 
to  spring  out  in  solid  masses,  uttering  Red 
Indian  war  whoops,  or  to  crawl  sneak- 
ingly  along  to  squirt  liquid  fire  upon  our 
soldiers. 

But  how  the  twilight  has  lengthened  in 
these  last  few  days!  Without  looking  at 
the  clock  it  is  evident  that  the  hour  is  late, 
and  the  mere  fact  of  still  being  able  to 
see  conveys  in  spite  of  all  a  vague  presage 
of  April;  it  seems  that  the  nightmare  of 
winter  is  coming  to  an  end,  that  the  sun 
will  reappear,  the  sun  of  deliverance,  that 
softer  breezes,  as  if  nothing  unusual  were 
happening  in  the  world,  will  bring  back 
flowers  and  songs  of  birds  to  all  these 
scenes  of  desolation,  among  all  these  thou- 


WAR  109 

sands  of  graves  of  youth.  There  is  yet 
another  sign  of  spring,  three  or  four  little 
girls,  who  rush  out  into  the  deserted  square 
in  wild  spirits,  quite  little  girls,  not  more 
than  six  years  old ;  they  have  escaped,  fleet 
of  foot,  from  the  cellar  in  which  they  sleep, 
and  they  take  hands  and  try  to  dance  a 
round,  as  on  an  evening  in  May,  to  the 
tune  of  an  old  Flemish  song.  But  another 
child,  a  big  girl  of  ten,  a  person  in  author- 
ity, comes  along  and  reduces  them  to  si- 
lence, scolding  them  as  if  they  had  done 
something  naughty,  and  drives  them  back 
to  the  underground  dwellings,  where,  after 
they  have  said  their  prayers,  lowly  mothers 
will  put  them  to  bed. 

Unspeakably  sad  seemed  that  childish 
round,  tentatively  danced  there  in  solitude 
at  the  fall  of  a  cold  March  night,  in  a 
square  dominated  by  a  phantom  belfry,  in 
a  martyred  city,  in  the  midst  of  gloomy, 


110  WAR 

inundated  plains,  all  in  darkness,  and  all 
beset  with  ambushes  and  mourning. 

Since  this  chapter  was  written  the  bom- 
bardment has  continued,  and  Ypres  is  now 
no  more  than  a  shapeless  mass  of  calcined 
stones. 


XI 

AT    THE    GENERAL    HEADQUAR- 
TERS OF  THE  BELGIAN  ARMY 

March,  1915. 

To-day  on  my  way  to  the  General  Head- 
quarters of  the  Belgian  Army,  whither  I 
am  boimd  on  a  mission  from  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  French  Republic  to  His  Maj- 
esty King  Albert,  I  pass  through  Fumes, 
another  town  wantonly  and  savagely  bom- 
barded, where  at  this  hour  of  the  day  there 
is  a  raging  storm  of  icy  wind,  snow,  rain, 
and  hail,  under  a  black  sky. 

Here  as  at  Ypres  the  barbarians  bent 
their  whole  soul  on  the  destruction  of  the 
historical  part,  the  charming  old  town  hall 
and  its  surroundings.  It  is  here  that  King 
Albert,  driven  forth  from  his  palace,  es- 
tablished himself  at  first.  Thereupon  the 
Germans,  with  that  delicacy  of  feeling  to 

111 


112  WAR 

which  at  present  no  one  in  the  world  dis- 
putes their  claim,  immediately  made  this 
place  their  objective,  in  order  to  bombard 
it  with  their  brutal,  heavy  shells.  I  need 
hardly  say  that  there  was  scarcely  anyone 
in  the  streets,  where  I  slowed  down  my 
motor  so  that  I  might  have  leisure  for  a 
better  appreciation  of  the  effects  of  the 
Kaiser's  "work  of  civilisation";  there 
were  only  some  groups  of  soldiers,  fully 
armed,  some  with  their  coat-collars  turned 
up,  others  with  the  back  curtains  of  their 
service-caps  turned  down.  They  hastened 
along  in  the  squalls,  running  like  children, 
and  laughing  good-hiunouredly,  as  if  it 
were  very  amusing,  this  downpour,  which 
for  once  was  not  of  fire. 

How  is  it  that  there  is  no  atmosphere  of 
sadness  about  this  half-empty  town?  It 
is  as  if  the  gaiety  of  these  soldiers,  in  spite 
of  the  gloomy  weather,  had  communicated 
itself  to  the  ruined  surroundings.     And 


WAR  113 

how  full  of  splendid  health  and  spirits 
they  seem!  I  see  no  more  on  any  faces 
that  somewhat  startled,  haggard  expres- 
sion, common  at  the  beginning  of  the  war. 
The  outdoor  life,  combined  with  good  food, 
has  bronzed  the  cheeks  of  these  men  whom 
the  shrapnel  has  spared,  but  their  prin- 
cipal support  and  stay  is  their  complete 
confidence,  their  conviction  that  they  have 
already  gained  the  upper  hand  and  are 
marching  to  victory.  The  invasion  of  the 
Boches  will  pass  away  like  this  horrible 
weather,  which  after  all  is  only  a  last 
shower  of  March;  it  will  all  come  to  an 
end. 

At  a  turning,  during  a  lull  in  the  storm, 
I  come  very  unexpectedly  upon  a  little  knot 
of  French  sailors.  I  cannot  refrain  from 
beckoning  to  them,  as  one  would  beckon  to 
children  whom  one  had  suddenly  found 
again  in  some  distant  jimgle,  and  they 
come  running  to  the  door  of  my  car  equally 

8 


^^^,^M'" 


114  WAR 

delighted  to  see  someone  in  naval  uniform. 
They  seem  to  be  picked  men;  they  have 
such  gallant,  comely  faces  and  such  frank, 
spirited  eyes.  Other  sailors,  too,  who  were 
passing  by  at  a  little  distance  and  whom 
I  had  not  called,  come  likewise  and  sur- 
round me  as  if  it  were  the  natural  thing 
to  do,  but  with  respectful  familiarity,  for 
are  we  not  in  a  strange  country,  and  at 
war?  Only  yesterday,  they  tell  me,  they 
arrived  a  whole  battalion  strong,  with 
their  officers,  and  they  are  camping  in  a 
neighbouring  village  while  waiting  to 
* '  down ' '  the  Boches.  And  I  should  like  so 
much  to  make  a  detour  and  pay  them  a 
visit  in  their  own  camp  if  I  were  not 
pressed  for  time,  tied  down  to  the  hour  of 
my  audience  with  His  Majesty.  Indeed 
it  gives  me  pleasure  to  associate  with  our 
soldiers,  but  it  is  a  still  greater  delight  to 
associate  with  our  sailors,  among  whom  I 
passed  forty  years  of  my  life.    Even  be- 


WAR  115 

fore  I  caught  sight  of  them,  just  from  hear- 
ing them  talk,  I  could  recognise  them  for 
what  they  were.  More  than  once,  on  our 
military  thoroughfares  in  the  north,  on  a 
pitch-dark  night,  when  it  was  one  of  their 
detachments  who  stopped  me  to  demand 
the  password,  I  have  recognised  them 
simply  by  the  sound  of  their  voices. 

One  of  our  generals,  army  commander 
on  the  Northern  Front,  was  speaking  to 
me  yesterday  of  that  pleasant,  kindly  fa- 
miliarity which  prevails  from  the  highest 
to  the  lowest  grade  of  the  military  ladder, 
and  which  is  a  new  tone  characteristic  of 
this  essentially  national  war  in  which  we 
all  march  hand  in  hand. 

*'In  the  trenches,"  he  said  to  me,  *^if  I 
stop  to  talk  to  a  soldier,  other  soldiers 
gather  roimd  me  so  that  I  may  talk  to 
them  too.  And  they  are  becoming  more 
and  more  admirable  for  their  high  spirits 
and  their  brotherliness.  If  only  our  thou- 


116  WAR 

sands  of  dead  could  be  restored  to  us  what 
a  benefit  this  war  would  have  bestowed 
upon  us,  drawing  us  near  together,  until 
we  all  possess  but  one  heart." 

It  is  a  long  way  to  the  General  Head- 
quarters. Out  in  the  open  country  the 
weather  is  appalling  beyond  description. 
The  roads  are  broken  up,  fields  flooded 
until  they  resemble  marshes,  and  some- 
times there  are  trenches,  chevaux  de  frise, 
reminding  the  traveller  that  the  barbar- 
ians are  still  very  near.  And  yet  all  this, 
which  ought  to  be  depressing,  no  longer 
succeeds  in  being  so.  Every  meeting  with 
soldiers — and  the  car  passes  them  every 
minute — is  sufficient  to  restore  your  se- 
renity. They  have  all  the  same  cheerful 
faces,  expressive  of  courage  and  gaiety. 
Even  the  poor  sappers,  up  to  their  knees 
in  water,  working  hard  to  repair  the  shel- 
ter pits  and  defences,  have  an  expression 
of  gaiety  under  their  dripping  service- 


WAR  117 

caps.  What  niunbers  of  soldiers  there  are 
in  the  smallest  villages,  Belgian  and 
French,  very  fraternally  intermingling. 
By  what  wonderful  organisation  of  the 
commissariat  are  these  men  housed  and 
fed? 

But  who  asserted  that  there  were  no 
Belgian  soldiers  left?  On  the  contrary,  I 
pass  imposing  detachments  on  their  way 
to  the  front,  in  good  order,  admirably 
equipped,  and  of  fine  bearing,  with  a  con- 
voy of  excellent  artillery  of  the  very  latest 
pattern.  Never  can  enough  be  said  in 
praise  of  the  heroism  of  a  people  who  had 
every  reason  for  not  preparing  themselves 
for  war,  since  they  were  under  the  pro- 
tection of  solemn  treaties  that  should  have 
preserved  them  forever  from  any  such 
necessity,  yet  who,  nevertheless,  sustained 
and  checked  the  brunt  of  the  attack  of  the 
great  barbarism.  Disabled  at  first  and 
almost  annihilated,  yet  they  are  recover- 


i!rts*    -»V 


118  WAR 

ing  themselves  and  gathering  around  their 
sublimely  heroic  king. 

It  is  raining,  raining,  and  we  are  numb 
with  cold,  but  we  have  arrived  at  last,  and 
in  another  moment  I  shall  see  him,  the 
King,  without  reproach  and  without  fear. 
Were  it  not  for  these  troops  and  all  these 
service  motor  cars,  it  would  be  impossible 
to  believe  that  this  remote  village  was  the 
General  Headquarters.  I  have  to  leave 
the  car,  for  the  road  which  leads  to  the 
royal  residence  is  nothing  more  than  a 
footpath.  Among  the  rough  motor  cars 
standing  there,  all  stained  with  mud  from 
the  roads,  there  is  one  car  of  superior  de- 
sign, having  no  armorial  bearings  of  any 
kind,  nothing  but  two  letters  traced  in 
chalk  on  the  black  door,  S.M.  (Sa  Ma- 
jeste),  for  this  is  his  car.  In  this  charm- 
ing corner  of  ancient  Flanders,  in  an  old 
abbey,  surrounded  by  trees  and  tombs,  here 
is  his  dwelling.    Out  in  the  rain,  on  the 


WAR  119 

path  which  borders  on  the  little  sacred 
cemetery,  an  aide-de-camp  comes  to  meet 
me,  a  man  with  the  charm  and  simplicity 
that  no  doubt  likewise  characterise  his  sov- 
ereign. There  are  no  guards  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  dwelling,  and  no  ceremony 
is  observed.  At  the  end  of  an  unimposing 
corridor  where  I  have  just  time  to  remove 
my  overcoat,  in  the  embrasure  of  an  open- 
ing door,  the  King  appears,  erect,  tall, 
slender,  with  regular  features  and  a  sur- 
prising air  of  youth,  with  frank  eyes, 
gentle  and  noble  in  expression,  stretching 
out  his  hand  in  kindly  welcome. 

In  the  course  of  my  life  other  kings  and 
emperors  have  been  gracious  enough  to  re- 
ceive me,  but  in  spite  of  pomp,  in  spite  of 
the  splendour  of  some  of  their  palaces, 
I  have  never  yet  felt  such  reverence  for 
sovereign  majesty  as  here,  on  the  thresh- 
old of  this  little  house,  where  it  is  infinitely 
exalted  by  calamity  and  self-sacrifice ;  and 


120  WAR 

when  I  express  this  sentiment  to  King 
Albert  he  replies  with  a  smile,  ''Oh,  as 
for  my  palace/'  and  he  completes  his 
phrase  with  a  negligent  wave  of  the  hand, 
indicating  his  humble  surroundings.  It  is 
indeed  a  simple  room  that  I  have  just 
entered,  yet  by  the  mere  absence  of  all 
vulgarity,  still  possessing  distinction.  A 
bookcase  crowded  with  books  occupies  the 
whole  of  one  wall ;  in  the  background  there 
is  an  open  piano  with  a  music-book  on  the 
stand ;  in  the  middle  a  large  table,  covered 
with  maps  and  strategic  plans;  and  the 
window,  open  in  spite  of  the  cold,  looks 
out  on  to  a  little  old-world  garden,  like  that 
of  a  parish  priest,  almost  completely  en- 
closed, stripped  of  its  leaves,  melancholy, 
weeping,  as  it  were,  the  rains  of  winter. 
After  I  have  executed  the  simple  mission 
entrusted  to  me  by  the  President  of  the 
Republic,  the  King  graciously  detains  me 
a  long  time  in  conversation.    But  if  I  felt 


WAR  121 

reluctant  to  write  even  the  beginning  of 
these  notes,  still  more  do  I  hesitate  to 
touch  upon  this  interview,  even  with  the 
utmost  discretion,  and  then  how  colour- 
less will  it  seem,  all  that  I  shall  venture 
to  say !  It  is  because  in  truth  I  know  that 
he  never  ceases  to  enjoin  upon  those 
around  him,  ^*  Above  all,  see  that  people 
do  not  talk  about  me,"  because  I  know 
and  imderstand  so  well  the  horror  he  pro- 
fesses for  anything  resembling  an  ''inter- 
view." So  then  at  first  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  be  silent,  and  yet  when  there  is 
an  opportunity  of  making  himself  heard, 
who  would  not  long  to  help  to  spread 
abroad,  to  the  utmost  of  his  small  ability, 
the  renown  of  such  a  name  ? 

Very  striking  in  the  first  place  is  the 
sincere  and  exquisite  modesty  of  his  heroic 
nature ;  it  is  almost  as  if  he  were  unaware 
that  he  is  worthy  of  admiration.  In  his 
opinion  he  has  less  deserved  the  venera- 


122  WAR 

tion  which  France  has  devoted  to  him,  and 
his  popularity  among  us,  than  the  least  of 
his  soldiers,  slain  for  our  common  defence. 
When  I  tell  him  that  I  have  seen  even  in 
the  depths  of  the  country,  in  peasants' 
cottages,  the  portraits  of  the  King  and 
Queen  of  the  Belgians  in  the  place  of 
honour,  with  little  flags,  black,  yellow  and 
red,  piously  pinned  around  them,  he  ap- 
pears scarcely  to  believe  me ;  his  smile  and 
his  silence  seem  to  answer: 

*'Yet  all  that  I  did  was  so  natural. 
Could  a  king  worthy  of  the  name  have 
acted  in  any  other  way?'* 

Now  we  talk  about  the  Dardanelles, 
where  in  this  hour  serious  issues  hang  in 
the  balance ;  he  is  pleased  to  question  me 
about  ambushes  in  those  parts,  which  I 
frequented  for  so  long  a  time,  and  which 
have  not  ceased  to  be  very  dear  to  me. 
But  suddenly  a  colder  gust  blows  in 
through  the  window,  still  opening  on  to 


WAR  123 

the  forlorn  little  garden.  With  what 
kindly  thoughtfulness,  then,  he  rises,  as 
any  ordinary  officer  might  have  done,  and 
himself  closes  the  window  near  which  I 
am  seated. 

And  then  we  talk  of  war,  of  rifles,  of 
artillery.  His  Majesty  is  well  posted  in 
everything,  like  a  general  already  broken 
in  to  his  craft. 

Strange  destiny  for  a  prince,  who,  in 
the  beginning,  did  not  seem  designated  for 
the  throne,  and  who,  perhaps,  would  have 
preferred  to  go  on  living  his  former,  some- 
what retired  life  by  the  side  of  his  beloved 
princess.  Then,  when  the  milooked-for 
crown  was  placed  upon  his  youthful  brow, 
he  might  well  have  believed  that  he  could 
hope  for  an  era  of  profound  peace,  in  the 
midst  of  the  most  peaceful  of  all  nations, 
but,  contrary  to  every  expectation,  he  has 
known  the  most  appallingly  tragic  reign 
of  all.    Between  one  day  and  the  next, 


124  WAE 

without  a  moment's  weakness,  without 
even  a  moment's  hesitation,  disdainful  of 
compromises,  which  for  a  time,  at  least, 
though  to  the  detriment  of  the  civilisation 
of  the  world,  might  have  preserved  for  a 
little  space  his  towns  and  palaces,  he  stood 
erect  in  the  way  of  the  Monster's  onrush, 
a  great  warrior  king  in  the  midst  of  an 
army  of  heroes. 

To-day  it  is  clear  that  he  has  no  longer 
a  doubt  of  victory,  and  his  own  loyalty 
gives  him  complete  confidence  in  the  loy- 
alty of  the  Allies,  who  truly  desire  to  re- 
store life  to  his  country  of  Belgium ;  nev- 
ertheless, he  insists  that  his  soldiers  shall 
co-operate  with  all  their  remaining 
strength  in  the  work  of  deliverance,  and 
that  they  shall  remain  to  the  end  at  the 
post  of  danger  and  honour.  Let  us  salute 
him  with  the  profoundest  reverence. 

Another  less  noble,  might  have  said  to 
himself: 


ffff^ 


WAR  125 

''I  have  amply  paid  my  debt  to  the  com- 
mon cause;  it  was  my  troops  who  built 
the  first  rampart  against  barbarism.  My 
country,  the  first  to  be  trampled  under  the 
feet  of  these  German  brutes,  is  no  more 
than  a  heap  of  ruins.    That  suffices.'' 

But  no,  he  will  have  the  name  of  Belgium 
inscribed  upon  a  yet  prouder  page,  by  the 
side  of  Serbia,  in  the  golden  book  of 
history. 

And  that  is  the  reason  why  I  met  on  my 
way  those  inestimable  troops,  alert  and 
fresh,  miraculously  revived,  who  were  on 
their  way  to  the  front  to  continue  the  holy 
struggle. 

Before  him  let  us  bow  down  to  the  very 
ground. 

Night  is  falling  when  the  audience  comes 
to  an  end  and  I  find  myself  again  on  the 
footpath  that  leads  to  the  abbey.  On  my 
return  journey,  along  those  roads  broken 
up  by  rain  and  by  military  transport 


^^01^ 


4^   -■*""'' 


126  WAR 

wagons,  I  remain  under  the  charm  of  his 
welcome.  And  I  compare  these  two  mon- 
archs,  situated,  as  it  were,  at  opposite  poles 
of  humanity,  the  one  at  the  pole  of  light, 
the  other  at  the  pole  of  darkness ;  the  one 
yonder,  swollen  with  hypocrisy  and  arro- 
gance, a  monster  among  monsters,  his 
hands  full  of  blood,  his  nails  full  of  torn 
flesh,  who  still  dares  to  surround  himself 
with  insolent  pomp;  the  other  here,  ban- 
ished without  a  murmur  to  a  little  house 
in  a  village,  standing  on  a  last  strip  of  his 
martyred  kingdom,  but  in  whose  honour 
rises  from  the  whole  civilised  earth  a  con- 
cert of  sjonpathy,  enthusiasm,  magnificent 
appreciation,  and  for  whom  are  stored  up 
crowns  of  most  pure  and  immortal  glory. 


XII 

SOME  WORDS  UTTERED  BY  HER 
MAJESTY,  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE 
BELGIANS 

*'A11  the  world  knows  what  value  to 
attach  to  the  King  of  Prussia  and  his 
word.  There  is  no  sovereign  in  Europe 
who  has  not  suffered  from  his  perfidy. 
And  such  a  king  as  this  would  impose  him- 
self upon  Germany  as  dictator  and  pro- 
tector !  Under  a  despotism  which  repudi- 
ates every  principle,  the  Prussian  mon- 
archy will  one  day  be  the  source  of  infinite 
calamity,  not  only  to  Germany,  but  like- 
wise to  the  whole  of  Europe. ' ' 

The  Empress  Maeia  Theresa. 

March,  1915. 
Far  away,  far  away  and  out  of  the  world 
seems  this  place  where  the  persecuted 
Queen  has  taken  refuge.    I  do  not  know 

127 


128  WAR 

how  long  my  motor  car,  its  windows  lashed 
by  rain,  has  rolled  along  in  the  dim  light 
caused  by  showers  and  approaching  night, 
when  at  last  the  Belgian  non-commissioned 
officer,  who  guided  my  chauffeur  along 
these  unfamiliar  roads,  announces  that  we 
have  arrived.  Her  Majesty,  Queen  Eliza- 
beth of  the  Belgians,  has  deigned  to  grant 
me  an  audience  at  half -past  six,  and  I 
trembled  lest  I  should  be  late,  for  the  way 
seemed  interminable  through  a  country- 
side which  it  was  too  dark  to  see ;  but  we 
were  in  time,  punctual  to  a  moment.  At 
half -past  six  on  an  evening  in  March, 
imder  an  overcast  sky,  it  is  already  dark 
as  night. 

The  car  stops  and  I  jump  out  on  to  the 
sands  of  the  seashore;  I  recognise  the 
sound  of  the  ocean  close  at  hand,  and  the 
boundless  expanse  of  the  North  Sea,  less 
dark  than  the  sky,  is  vaguely  perceptible 
to  the  sight.  Rain  and  cold  winds  rage 
around  us.     On  the  dunes  two  or  three 


WAR  129 

houses  without  lights  in  the  windows  are 
visible  as  greyish  outlines.  However, 
someone  carrying  a  little  shining  glass 
lamp  is  hurrying  to  receive  me;  he  is  an 
officer  in  Her  Majesty's  service,  carrying 
one  of  those  electric  torches  which  the 
wind  does  not  blow  out,  and  which  in 
France  we  call  an  Apache's  lantern. 

On  entering  the  first  house  to  which  the 
aide-de-camp  conducts  me,  I  attempt  to 
leave  my  overcoat  in  the  hall. 

**No,  no,"  he  says,  "keep  it  on;  we  have 
still  to  go  out  of  doors  to  reach  Her  Ma- 
j  esty  's  apartments. ' ' 

This  first  villa  shelters  only  ladies-in- 
waiting  and  officers  of  that  court  now  so 
shorn  of  ceremony,  and  every  evening  it 
is  plunged  purposely  in  darkness  as  a  pre- 
caution against  shrapnel  fire.  A  moment 
later  I  am  summoned  to  Her  Majesty's 
presence.  Escorted  by  the  same  pleasant 
officer  with  his  lantern,  I  hurry  across  to 

9 


-1^1% 


130  WAR 

the  next  house.  The  rain  is  mingled  with 
white  butterflies,  which  are  flakes  of  snow. 
Very  indistinctly  I  see  a  desert-like  land- 
scape of  dunes  and  sands  almost  white, 
stretching  out  into  infinity. 

*' Would  you  not  imagine  it  a  site  in  the 
Sahara?"  says  my  guide.  "When  your 
Arab  cavalry  came  here  the  illusion  was 
complete. ' ' 

It  is  true,  for  even  in  Africa  the  sands 
turn  pale  in  the  darkness,  but  this  is  a  Sa- 
hara tra,nsported  under  the  gloomy  sky  of 
a  northern  night,  and  it  has  assumed  there 
too  deep  a  melancholy. 

In  the  villa  we  enter  a  warm,  well- 
lighted  room,  which,  with  its  red  furnish- 
ings, introduces  a  note  of  gaiety,  almost 
of  comfort,  into  this  quasi-solitude,  bat- 
tered by  wintry  squalls.  And  there  is  a 
pleasure,  which  at  first  transcends  every- 
thing else — the  physical  pleasure  of  ap- 
proaching a  fireplace  with  a  good  blazing 
fire. 


WAR  131 

While  waiting  for  the  Queen  I  notice  a 
long  packing-case  lying  on  two  chairs ;  it 
is  made  of  that  fine,  unequalled,  white  car- 
pentry which  immediately  reminds  me  of 
Nagasaki,  and  on  it  are  painted  Japanese 
letters  in  colunms.  The  officer's  glance  fol- 
lowed mine. 

**That,"  he  says,  **is  a  magnificent  an- 
cient sabre  which  the  Japanese  have  just 
sent  to  our  King." 

I,  personall}^,  had  forgotten  them,  those 
distant  allies  of  ours  in  the  Farthest  East. 
Yet  it  is  true  that  they  are  on  our  side; 
how  strange  a  thing !  And  even  over  there 
the  woes  of  these  two  gracious  sovereigns 
are  universally  known,  and  the  Japanese 
desired  to  show  their  special  sympathy  by 
sending  them  a  valuable  present. 

I  think  this  charming  officer  was  going 
to  show  me  the  sabre  from  Japan,  but  a 
lady-in-waiting  appears,  announcing  Her 
Majesty,  and  he  withdraws  at  once. 


132  WAR 

' '  Her  Ma j  esty  is  coining, '  ^  says  the  lady- 
in-waiting. 

The  Queen,  whom  I  have  never  yet  seen, 
consecrated  as  it  were  by  suffering,  with 
what  infinite  reverence  I  await  her  com- 
ing, standing  there  in  front  of  the  fire 
while  wind  and  snow  continue  to  rage  in 
the  black  night  outside.  Through  which 
door  will  she  enter?  Doubtless  by  that 
door  over  there  at  the  end  of  the  room, 
on  which  my  attention  is  involuntarily 
concentrated. 

But  no!  A  soft,  rustling  sound  makes 
me  turn  my  head  towards  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room,  and  from  behind  a  screen 
of  red  silk  which  concealed  another  door 
the  young  Queen  appears,  so  near  to  me 
that  I  have  not  room  to  make  my  court 
bow.  My  first  impression,  necessarily  fur- 
tive as  a  flash  of  lightning,  a  mere  visual 
impression,  I  might  say  a  colourist's  im- 
pression, is  a  dazzling  little  vision  of  blue 
— the  blue  of  her  gown,  but  more  espe- 


WAR  133 

cially  the  blue  of  her  eyes,  which  shine  like 
two  luminous  stars.  And  then  she  has 
such  an  air  of  youth ;  she  seems  this  even- 
ing twenty-four,  and  scarcely  that.  From 
the  different  portraits  I  had  seen  of  Her 
Majesty,  portraits  so  little  faithful  to  life, 
I  had  gathered  that  she  was  very  tall,  with 
a  profile  almost  too  long,  but  on  the  con- 
trary, she  is  of  medium  height,  and  her 
face  is  small,  with  exquisitely  refined  fea- 
tures— a  face  almost  ethereal,  so  delicate 
that  it  almost  vanishes,  eclipsed  by  those 
marvellous,  limpid  eyes,  like  two  pure 
turquoises,  transparent  to  reveal  the  light 
within.  Even  a  man  unaware  of  her  rank 
and  of  everything  concerning  her,  her  de- 
votion to  duty,  the  superlative  dignity  of 
her  actions,  her  serene  resignation,  her  ad- 
mirable, simple  charity,  would  say  to  him- 
self at  first  sight: 

*'The  woman  with  those  eyes,  who  may 
she  be?    Assuredly  one  who  soars  very 


134  WAR 

high  and  will  never  falter,  who  without 
even  a  tremor  of  her  eyelids  can  look  in 
the  face  not  only  temptations,  but  likewise 
danger  and  death. ' ' 

With  what  reverent  sympathy,  free  from 
vulgar  curiosity,  would  I  fain  catch  an 
echo  of  that  which  stirs  in  the  depths  of 
her  heart  when  she  contemplates  the  drama 
of  her  destiny.  But  a  conversation  with 
a  queen  is  not  directed  by  one's  own  fancy, 
and  at  the  beginning  of  the  audience  Her 
Majesty  touches  upon  different  subjects 
lightly  and  gracefully  as  if  there  were 
nothing  unusual  happening  in  the  world. 
We  talk  of  the  East,  where  we  have  both 
travelled;  we  talk  of  books  she  has  read; 
it  seems  as  if  we  were  oblivious  of  the 
great  tragedy  which  is  being  enacted, 
oblivious  of  the  surrounding  country, 
strewn  with  ruins  and  the  dead.  Soon, 
however,  perhaps  because  a  little  bond  of 
confidence  has  established  itself  between 


WAR  135 

us,  Her  Majesty  speaks  to  me  of  the  de- 
struction of  Ypres,  Furnes,  towns  from 
which  I  have  just  come ;  then  the  two  blue 
stars  gazing  at  me  seem  to  me  to  grow  a 
little  misty,  in  spite  of  an  effort  to  keep 
them  clear. 

**But,  madam,"  I  say,  ^' there  still  re- 
mains standing  enough  of  the  walls  to 
enable  all  the  outlines  to  be  traced  again, 
and  almost  everything  to  be  practically 
reconstructed  in  the  better  times  that  are 
in  store." 

' '  Ahj ' '  she  answers, ' '  rebuild !  Certainly 
it  will  be  possible  to  rebuild,  but  it  will 
never  be  more  than  an  imitation,  and  for 
me  something  essential  will  always  be 
lacking.  I  shall  miss  the  soul  which  has 
passed  away." 

Then  I  see  how  dearly  Her  Majesty  had 
already  loved  those  marvels  now  ruined, 
and  all  the  past  of  her  adopted  country, 
which  survived  there  in  the  old  stone 
tracery  of  Flanders. 


136  WAR 

Ypres  and  Furnes  incline  us  to  sub- 
jects less  impersonal,  and  gradually  we  at 
last  come  to  talk  of  Germany.  One  of  the 
sentiments  predominant,  it  seems,  in  her 
bruised  heart  is  that  of  amazement,  the 
most  painful  as  well  as  the  most  complete 
amazement,  at  so  many  crimes. 

** There  has  been  some  change  in  them," 
she  says,  in  hesitating  words.  * '  They  used 
not  to  be  like  this.  The  Crown  Prince, 
whom  I  knew  very  well  in  my  childhood, 
was  gentle,  and  nothing  in  him  led  one  to 

expect Think  of  it  as  I  may,  day  and 

night,  I  cannot  understand No,  in 

the  old  days  they  were  not  like  this,  of 
that  I  am  sure." 

But  I  know  very  well  that  they  were 
ever  thus  (as  indeed  all  of  us  know)  ;  they 
were  always  the  same  from  the  beginning 
under  their  inscrutable  hypocrisy.  But 
how  could  I  venture  to  contradict  this 
Queen,  born  among  them,  like  a  beautiful. 


WAR  137 

rare  flower  among  stinging  nettles  and 
brambles'?  To  be  sure,  the  unleashing  of 
their  latent  barbarism  which  we  are  now 
witnessing  is  the  work  of  that  King  of 
Prussia  who  is  the  faithful  successor  of 
him  whom  formerly  the  great  Empress 
Maria  Theresa  stigmatised;  it  is  he  in- 
deed, who,  to  use  the  bitter  yet  very  just 
American  expression,  has  given  them 
swelled  heads.  But  their  character  was 
ever  the  same  in  all  ages,  and  in  order  to 
form  a  judgment  of  their  soids,  steeped  in 
lies,  murders,  and  rapine,  it  is  sufficient 
to  read  their  writers,  their  thinkers,  whose 
cynicism  leaves  us  aghast. 

After  a  moment's  pause  in  which  noth- 
ing is  heard  but  the  noise  of  the  wind  out- 
side, remembering  that  the  young  mar- 
tyred Queen  was  a  Bavarian  princess,  I 
venture  to  recall  the  fact  that  the  Bavar- 
ians in  the  Germany  Army  were  troubled 
at  the  persecutions  endured  by  the  Queen 


138  WAR 

of  the  Belgians,  who  had  sprung  from  their 
own  race,  and  indignant  when  the  Mon- 
ster who  leads  this  Witches'  Sabbath  even 
tried  to  single  out  her  children  as  a  mark 
for  his  shrapnel  fire. 

But  the  Queen,  raising  her  little  hand 
from  where  it  rested  on  the  silken  texture 
of  her  gown,  outlines  a  gesture  which  sig- 
nifies something  inexorably  final,  and  in 
a  grave,  low  voice  she  utters  this  phrase 
which  falls  upon  the  silence  with  the  so- 
lemnity of  a  sentence  whence  there  is  no 
appeal : 

*'It  is  at  an  end.  Between  them  and  me 
has  fallen  a  curtain  of  iron  which  will 
never  again  be  lifted." 

At  the  same  time,  at  the  remembrance 
of  her  childhood,  doubtless,  and  of  those 
whom  she  loved  over  there,  the  two  clear 
blue  eyes  which  were  looking  at  me  grow 
very  misty,  and  I  turn  my  head  away  so 
that  I  may  not  seem  to  have  noticed. 


XIII 

AN  APPEAL  ON  BEHALF  OF  THE 
SERIOUSLY  WOUNDED  IN  THE 
EAST 

June,  1915. 
The  Orient,  the  Dardanelles,  the  Sea  of 
Marmora — the  mere  enunciation  of  these 
words,  especially  in  these  beautiful 
months  of  summer,  conjures  up  images  of 
sun-steeped  repose,  a  repose  perhaps  a 
little  mournful  because  of  the  lack  of  all 
movement  in  those  parts,  but  a  repose  of 
such  adorable  melancholy,  in  the  midst  of 
so  many  remembrances  of  great  past  des- 
tinies  of  humanity,  which,  throughout 
these  regions,  slumber,  preserved  under 
the  mantle  of  Islam.  But  lately  on  this 
peninsula  of  Gallipoli,  with  its  somewhat 
bare  and  stony  hills,  there  used  to  be,  in 
the  winding  folds  of  every  river,  tranquil 
old  villages,  with  their  wooden  houses  built 

139 


140  WAR 

on  the  site  of  ancient  ruins,  their  white 
minarets,  their  dark  cypress  groves,  shel- 
tering some  of  those  charming  gilded 
stelae,  which  exist  in  countless  numbers, 
as  everyone  knows,  in  that  land  of  Turkey 
where  the  dead  are  never  disturbed.  And 
it  was  all  so  calm,  all  this ;  it  seemed  that 
these  humble  little  Edens  might  have  felt 
sure  of  being  spared  for  a  long  time  yet, 
if  not  for  ever. 

But  alas !  the  Germans  are  the  cause  of 
the  horror  that  is  unchained  here  to-day, 
that  horror  without  precedent,  which  it  is 
their  genius  to  propagate  as  soon  as  they 
have  chosen  a  spot  wherein  to  stretch  out 
their  tentacles,  visible  or  concealed.  And 
it  has  become  a  most  sinister  chaos,  lighted 
by  huge  flames,  red  or  livid,  in  a  continu- 
ous din  of  hell.  Everything  is  overthrown 
in  confusion  and  ruin. 

''The  ancient  castles  of  Europe  and  Asia 
are  nothing  more  than  ruins,"  writes  to 


'^, 


WAR  141 

me  one  of  our  old  Zouaves,  who  is  fighting 
in  those  parts;  "it  is  to  me  unspeakably 
painful  to  see  those  idyllic  landscapes  har- 
rowed by  trenches  and  shells;  the  vener- 
able cypress  trees  are  mown  down;  fune- 
real marbles  of  great  artistic  value  are 
shattered  into  a  thousand  fragments.  If 
only  Stamboul  at  least  may  be  preserved  !*' 

There  are  trenches,  trenches  every- 
where. To  this  form  of  warfare,  under- 
ground and  treacherous,  which  the  Ger- 
mans have  invented,  the  Turks,  like  our- 
selves, have  necessarily  had  to  submit. 
And  so  this  ancient  soil,  the  repository  of 
the  treasures  of  antiquity,  has  been 
ploughed  up  into  deep  furrows,  in  which 
appear  at  every  moment  the  fragments  of 
some  marvel  dating  from  distant,  unknown 
epochs. 

And  at  every  hour  of  the  night  and  day 
these  trenches  are  reddened  with  blood, 
with  the  blood  of  our  sons  of  France,  of 


r> 


142  WAR 

our  English  friends,  and  even  of  those 
gentle  giants  of  New  Zealand,  who  have 
followed  them  into  this  furnace.  The 
earth  is  abundantly  drenched  with  their 
blood,  the  blood  of  all  these  Allies,  so  dis- 
similar, but  so  firmly  united  against  the 
monstrous  knavery  of  Germany.  Oppo- 
site, very  close,  there  flows  the  blood  of 
those  Turks,  who  are  nothing  but  the  un- 
happy victims  of  hateful  plots,  yet  who 
are  so  freely  insulted  in  France  by  people 
who  understand  nothing  of  the  underlying 
cause.  They  fall  in  thousands,  these 
Turks,  more  exposed  to  shrapnel  fire  than 
our  own  men;  nevertheless  they  fight  re- 
luctantly; they  fight  because  they  have 
been  deceived  and  because  insolent  for- 
eigners drive  them  on  with  their  revolvers. 
If  on  the  whole  they  fight  none  the  less 
superbly,  it  is  merely  a  question  of  race. 
And  the  simplest  of  them,  who  have  been 
persuaded  that  they  had  to  do  with  only 


WAR  143 

their  Russian  enemies,  are  unaware  that 
it  is  we  who  are  there. 

On  this  peninsula  we  occupy  a  position 
won  and  retained  by  force  of  heroism. 
The  formation  of  the  ground  continues  to 
render  our  situation  one  of  difficulty  and 
our  tenacity  still  more  worthy  of  admira- 
tion. Our  position,  indeed,  is  dominated 
by  the  low  hills  of  Asia,  where  the  forts 
have  not  yet  all  been  silenced;  there  is 
therefore  no  nook  or  corner,  no  tent,  no 
single  one  of  our  field  hospitals,  where 
doctors  can  attend  to  the  wounded  in  per- 
fect security,  absolutely  certain  that  no 
shell  will  come  and  interrupt  them. 

This  terrible  void  France  desires  to  fill 
with  all  possible  dispatch.  With  the  ut- 
most haste,  she  is  fitting  out  a  great  hos- 
pital ship,  which  the  Red  Cross  Society 
has  offered  to  provide  at  its  own  expense 
with  three  himdred  beds,  with  linen, 
nurses,  drugs  and  dressings.     This  life- 


144  WAR 

saving  ship  will  be  moored  in  front  of  an 
island  close  to  the  scene  of  battle,  but 
completely  sheltered;  steam  and  motor 
launches  will  be  attached  to  it  to  fetch 
those  who  are  seriously  wounded  and 
bring  them  on  board  day  by  day,  so  that 
they  may  be  operated  upon  and  tended  in 
peace  before  infection  and  gangrene  set 
in.  How  many  precious  lives  of  our  sol- 
diers will  thus  be  saved! 

It  must  be  understood  that  the  stretcher- 
bearers  of  the  ship  will  bring  back  like- 
wise wounded  Turks,  if  there  are  any 
lying  in  the  zone  accessible  to  them;  and 
this  is  only  fair  give  and  take,  for  they 
do  the  same  for  us.  Some  Zouaves  who 
are  fighting  there  wrote  to  me  yesterday: 

*'The  Turks  are  resisting  with  un- 
equalled bravery ;  this  all  the  newspapers 
of  Europe  admit.  But  our  wounded  and 
our  prisoners  receive  excellent  treatment 
from  them,  as  General  Gouraud  himself 


A 


WAR  145 

annoimced  in  an  Order  of  the  Day;  they 
nurse  them,  feed  them,  and  tend  them  bet- 
ter than  their  own  soldiers." 

And  here  is  a  literal  extract  from  a  let- 
ter from  one  of  our  adjutants:  ''I  fell, 
wounded  in  the  leg,  beside  a  Turkish  offi- 
cer more  seriously  wounded  than  myself ; 
he  had  with  him  emergency  dressings  and 
he  began  by  dressing  my  wound  before 
thinking  of  his  own.  He  spoke  French 
very  well  and  he  said  to  me,  'You  see,  my 
friend,  to  what  a  pass  these  miserable 
Germans  have  brought  us!'  " 

If  I  dwell  upon  the  subject  of  the  Turks 
it  is  not,  I  need  hardly  say,  because  I  take 
a  deeper  interest  in  them  than  in  our  own 
men ;  no  one  will  insult  me  by  such  a  re- 
flection. No.  But  as  for  our  own  soldiers, 
does  not  everyone  love  them  already? 
Whereas  these  poor  fellows  are  really  too 
much  misjudged  and  slandered  by  the  ig- 
norant masses. 

10 


146  WAR 

"Spare  them  as  soon  as  tliey  hold  up 
their  hands,"  said  a  heroic  general, 
brought  home  yesterday  from  the  Dar- 
danelles covered  with  wounds.  He  was 
addressing  his  men  in  a  proclamation  ad- 
mirable for  the  loyalty  of  its  tone.  * '  Spare 
them/'  he  said;  ''it  is  not  they  who  are 
our  enemies." 

So,  then,  the  great  life-saving  ship  which 
is  about  to  be  sent  to  those  parts  is  being 
made  ready  to  sail  in  all  haste.  But  the 
Eed  Cross  Society  have  herewith  taken 
upon  themselves  a  heavy  responsibility, 
and  it  will  be  readily  understood  that  they 
will  need  money,  much  money.  That  is 
why  I  make  this  appeal  on  their  behalf  to 
all  the  world.  So  much  has  already  been 
given  that  it  is  an  earnest  wish  that  still 
more  will  be  forthcoming,  for  with  us 
charity  is  inexhaustible  when  once  the 
noble  impulse  stirs.  I  would  ask  that  help 
may  be  given  very  soon,  for  there  is  need 
of  dispatch. 


WAR  147 

How  greatly  this  will  change  the  con- 
dition of  life  for  our  dear  soldiers.  What 
confidence  it  will  give  them  to  know  that 
if  they  fall,  seriously  wounded,  there  is 
waiting  for  them  a  place  of  refuge,  like  a 
little  corner  of  France,  which  is  equivalent 
to  saying  a  corner  of  Paradise,  and  that 
they  will  be  taken  there  at  once.  Instead 
of  the  miserable  makeshift  field  hospital, 
too  hot  and  by  no  means  too  safe,  where 
the  terrible  noise  never  ceases  to  rack  ach- 
ing temples,  there  will  be  this  refuge,  ab- 
solutely out  of  range  of  gun  fire,  this  great 
peaceful  ship,  open  everywhere  to  the 
good,  wholesome  air  of  the  sea,  where  at 
last  prevails  that  silence  so  passionately 
desired  by  sufferers,  where  they  will  be 
tended  with  all  the  latest  improvements 
and  the  most  ingenious  inventions  by 
gentle  French  nurses  in  white  dresses, 
whose  noiseless  footfall  disturbs  no 
slumber  nor  dream. 


XIV 

SERBIA  IN  THE  BALKAN  WAR 

July,  1915. 

But  lately  I  had  included  Serbia — its 
prince  in  particular — in  my  first  accusa- 
tions against  the  Balkan  races,  when  they 
hurled  themselves  together  upon  Turkey, 
already  at  grips  with  Italy.  But  later  on, 
in  the  course  of  so  many  wrathful  indict- 
ments, I  did  not  once  again  mention  the 
name  of  the  Serbians.  That  was  because 
my  information  from  those  parts  proved 
to  me  clearly  that  among  the  original 
Allies,  the  Allies  of  the  Balkans,  the  Ser- 
bians were  the  most  humane.  They  them- 
selves, doubtless,  observed  that  I  made  no 
further  reference  to  them,  for  no  insult- 
ing letter  reached  me  from  their  country, 
whereas  Bulgarians  and  even  Greeks 
poured  upon  me  a  flood  of  unseemly  abuse. 

148 


WAR  149 

Since  then  the  great  philanthropist, 
Carnegie,  in  order  to  establish  the  truth 
definitely  in  history,  has  set  on  foot  a  con- 
scientious international  court  of  inquiry, 
whose  findings,  published  in  a  large 
volume,  have  all  the  authority  of  the  most 
impartial  official  docmnents.  Here  are 
recorded,  supported  by  proofs  and  signa- 
tures, the  most  appalling  testimonies 
against  Bulgarians  and  Greeks;  but  no- 
ticeably fewer  crimes  are  ascribed  to 
Serbia's  account.  But  this  volume  en- 
titled *' Conquest  in  the  Balkans"  (Car- 
negie Endowment)  has,  I  fear,  been  too 
little  read,  and  it  is  a  duty  to  bring  it  to 
the  notice  of  all. 

Moreover,  who  would  refuse  pardon  to 
that  gallant  Serbian  nation  for  the  excesses 
they  may  have  committed?  Who  would 
not  accord  to  them  the  profound  sympathy 
of  France  to-day,  when  the  Prussian  Em- 
peror, in  his  ruthless  ferocity,  has  sacri- 


150  WAR 

ficed  them  as  a  bait  for  one  of  Ms  most 
abominable  and  knavish  plots  ?  Poor  little 
Serbia  I  With  what  magnificent  heroism 
she  has  succeeded  in  defending  herself 
against  an  enemy  who  did  not  even  shrink 
from  the  atrocious  act  of  burning  her  cap- 
ital at  a  time  when  it  was  peopled  solely 
by  women  and  children!  Poor  little 
Serbia,  suddenly  become  a  martyr,  and 
sublime!  I  would  willingly  at  least  win 
back  for  her  some  French  hearts  which 
my  last  book  may  perhaps  have  alienated. 
And  that  is  the  sole  purpose  of  this  letter. 


XV 

ABOVE  ALL  LET  US  NEVER 
FORGET  I 

August  1st,  1915. 
A  year  ago  to-day  began  that  shameful 
violation  of  Belgian  territory.  In  the 
midst  of  these  appalling  horrors,  time,  it 
seems,  has  hastened  still  more  in  its  be- 
wildered flight,  and  already  we  have 
reached  the  anniversary  of  that  foul  deed, 
the  blackest  that  has  ever  defiled  the  his- 
tory of  the  hiunan  race.  This  crime  was 
committed  after  long^  hypocritical  pre- 
meditation, and  no  pang  of  remorse,  no 
vestige  of  shame,  caused  those  myriads  of 
accomplices  to  stay  their  hands.  It  is  a 
crime  that  leaves  with  us,  in  addition  to 
immeasurable  mourning,  an  impression  of 
infinite  sadness  and  discouragement,  be- 
cause it  proves  that  one  of  the  greatest 

151 


152  WAR 

countries  in  Europe  is  hopelessly  bank- 
rupt of  all  that  men  have  agreed  to  call 
honour,  civilisation,  and  progress.  The 
barbarian  onslaughts  of  ancient  days  were 
not  only  a  thousand  times  less  murderous, 
but,  let  it  be  specially  noted,  incomparably 
less  revolting  in  character.  There  were 
certain  dastardly  deeds,  certain  acts  of 
profanation,  certain  lies,  at  which  those 
hordes  that  came  to  us  from  Asia  hesi- 
tated; an  instinctive  reverence  still  re- 
strained them;  and,  moreover,  in  those 
times  they  did  not  destroy  with  such  im- 
pudent cynicism,  invoking  the  God  of 
Christians  in  a  burlesque  pathos  of 
prayer ! 

Thus  in  our  own  day  has  arisen  a  grisly 
Emperor,  with  a  pack  of  princelings,  his 
own  progeny,  a  litter  of  wolves,  whose  most 
savage  and  at  the  same  time  most  cowardly 
representative  wears  a  death's  head  upon 
his  helmet;  and  generals  and  millions  of 


WAR  153 

Germans  have  been  found  ready  to  unite, 
after  a  calculated  preparation  of  nearly 
half  a  century,  in  committing  this  same 
preliminary  crime,  the  forerunner  of  so 
many  others,  and  by  way  of  prelude,  to 
crush  ignobly  in  their  advance  a  little 
nation  whom  they  had  deemed  without 
defence. 

But  lo !  the  little  nation  arose,  quivering 
with  sacred  indignation,  and  attempted  to 
check  the  great  barbarism,  suddenly  un- 
masked ;  to  check  it  for  at  least  a  few  days, 
even  at  the  cost  of  a  seemingly  inevitable 
doom  of  annihilation. 

What  starry  crowns  can  history  award 
worthy  of  that  Belgian  nation  and  of  their 
King,  who  did  not  fear  to  bid  them  set 
themselves  there  as  a  barrier. 

King  Albert  of  Belgium,  dispossessed 
to-day  of  his  all  and  banished  to  a  hamlet 
— what  tribute  of  admiration  and  homage 
can  we  offer  him  worthy  of  his  acceptance 


154  WAR 

and  sufficiently  enduring?  Upon  tablets 
of  flawless  marble  let  us  carve  his  name  in 
deep  letters  so  that  it  may  be  well  insured 
against  the  fugitiveness  of  our  French 
memories,  which,  alas  I  have  sometimes 
proved  a  little  untrustworthy,  at  least  in 
face  of  the  age-long  infamies  of  Germany. 
May  we  remember  for  ever,  we,  and  even 
our  far  distant  posterity,  that  to  save  civil- 
ised Europe,  and  especially  our  own  coun- 
try of  France,  King  Albert  did  not  for 
one  moment  shrink  from  those  sheer,  un- 
conditional sacrifices  which  seemed  be- 
yond human  strength.  Spurning  the 
tempting  compromises  offered  by  that 
monstrous  emperor,  he  has  fulfilled  to  the 
end  his  duty  of  loyal  hero  with  a  calm 
smile,  as  if  nothing  were  more  natural. 
And  so  perfect  is  his  modesty  that  he  is 
surprised  if  he  is  told  that  he  has  been 
sublime. 
As  for  Queen  Elizabeth,  let  each  one  of 


WAR  155 

us  dedicate  to  her  a  shrine  in  his  soul. 
One  of  the  most  dreaded  duties  that  falls 
almost  invariably  to  the  lot  of  queens  is 
having  to  reign  over  adopted  countries 
while  exiled  from  their  own.  In  the  special 
case  of  this  young  martyred  queen,  this 
doom  of  exile  which  has  befallen  her,  and 
many  other  queens,  must  be  a  far  more 
exquisite  torture,  added  to  all  the  other 
evils  endured,  for  a  crushing  fatality  has 
come  and  separated  her  for  ever  from  all 
who  were  once  her  own  people,  even  from 
that  noble  woman,  all  devotion  and 
charity,  who  was  her  mother.  This  addi- 
tional sorrow  she  bears  with  calm  and 
lofty  courage  which  never  falters.  She  is 
by  the  King^s  side,  his  constant  companion 
in  the  most  terrible  hours  of  all;  a  com- 
panion whose  energy  halts  at  nothing. 
And  she  is  by  the  side  of  the  poor  who  have 
lost  their  all  by  pillage  or  fire ;  by  the  side 
of  the  wounded  who  are  suffering  or  dying ; 


156  WAR 

to  them,  too,  she  is  a  companion,  com- 
forting the  lowliest  with  her  adorable  sim- 
plicity, shedding  on  all  the  increasing 
bounty  of  her  exquisite  compassion.  Oh, 
may  she  be  blest,  reverenced,  and  glorified ! 
And  for  her  altar,  dedicated  within  our 
souls,  let  us  choose  very  rare,  very  deli- 
cate flowers,  like  unto  herself. 


XVI 

THE  INN  OF  THE  GOOD 
SAMARITAN 

August,  1915. 

In  spite  of  the  kindly  welcome  which  the 
visitor  receives  and  a  wholesome  spirit 
of  gaiety  which  never  fails,  it  is  an  inn 
that  I  cannot  honestly  recommend  without 
reserve. 

In  the  first  place  it  is  somewhat  difficult 
of  access,  so  much  so  that  ladies  are  never 
admitted.  To  climb  up  to  it — for  it  is 
perched  very  high — the  traveller  must 
needs  make  his  way  for  hours  through 
ancient  forests  which  the  axe  had  spared 
until  a  very  few  months  ago,  along  un- 
known paths  winding  at  steep  gradients ; 
among  giant  trees,  pines  or  larches,  felled 
yesterday,  which  still  lie  about  in  all  direc- 
tions; paths  that  are  concealed  by  close- 
is? 


158  WAE 

growing  greenery  with  such  jealous  care 
that  in  the  few  open  spaces  occurring  here 
and  there  trees  have  been  planted  right 
into  the  ground,  trees  uprooted  elsewhere, 
and  which  are  here  only  to  hide  the  way- 
farer behind  their  dying  branches.  It 
may  be  supposed  that  on  the  neighbouring 
hills  sharp  eyes,  unfriendly  eyes,  are 
watching,  which  necessitate  all  these  pre- 
cautions. 

But  there  are  many  people  on  the  road 
through  those  forests,  which  seemed  at 
first  sight  virgin.  Viewing  from  a  little 
distance  all  these  mountains  covered  with 
the  same  strong  growth  of  forest,  so  lux- 
uriant, and  everywhere  so  alike  in  appear- 
ance, who  would  imagine  that  they  shel- 
tered whole  tribes?  And  such  strange 
tribes,  evidently  survivors  of  an  entirely 
prehistoric  race  of  men,  and  in  the  anom- 
alous position  of  having  no  women-folk. 
Here  are  nothing  but  men,  and  men  all 


WAR  159 

dressed  alike,  with  a  singular  fancy  for 
uniformity,  in  old,  faded,  woollen  great- 
coats of  horizon  blue.  They  have  not  paid 
much  attention  to  their  hair  or  beards, 
and  they  have  almost  the  appearance  of 
brigands,  except  that  they  all  have  such 
pleasant  faces  and  such  kindly  smiles  for 
the  wayfarer  that  they  inspire  no  terror. 
So  far  from  this  he  is  tempted  rather  to 
stop  and  shake  hands  with  them.  But 
what  curious  little  dwellings  they  have 
built,  some  isolated,  some  grouped  to- 
gether into  a  village!  Some  of  them  are 
quite  lightly  constructed  of  planks  of  wood 
and  are  covered  over  with  branches  of 
pine,  and  within  are  mattresses  of  leaves 
that  serve  for  beds.  Some  are  under- 
ground, grim  as  caves  of  troglodytes,  and 
the  approach  to  them  is  protected  by  huge 
masses  of  rock,  doubtless  their  defence 
against  formidable  wild  beasts  haunting 
the  neighbourhood.    And  these  dwellings 

/^  ■••■, 


160  WAR 

are  always  close  to  one  of  the  innumer- 
able streams  of  clear  water  whicli  rush 
down  babbling  from  the  heights,  among 
pink  flowers  and  mosses — for  these  minia- 
ture waterfalls  are  many,  and  all  these 
mountains  are  full  of  the  pleasant  music 
of  running  water.  Prom  time  to  time,  to 
be  sure,  other  sounds  are  heard,  hollow 
sounds  of  evil  import,  detonations  on  the 
right  or  the  left,  which  the  echoes  prolong. 
Can  it  be  that  there  is  artillery  concealed 
almost  everywhere  throughout  the  forest  ? 
What  want  of  taste,  thus  to  disturb  the 
symphony  of  the  springs. 

They  have  probably  just  arrived  here, 
these  savage  tribes,  dressed  in  greyish 
blue ;  they  are  recent  settlers,  for  all  their 
arrangements  are  new  and  improvised,  and 
so  likewise  is  the  interminable  winding 
road  which  they  have  laid  out,  and  which 
to-day  our  motor  cars,  with  the  help  of  a 
little  goodwill,  manage  to  climb  so  rapidly. 


"N 


WAR  161 

One  of  the  peculiarities  of  these  hidden 
villages  which  crouch  in  the  shade  of  the 
lofty  forest  trees  is  that  each  has  its  own 
cemetery,  tenderly  cared  for,  so  close  that 
it  almost  borders  on  the  dwellings,  as  if 
the  living  were  anxious  not  to  sever  their 
comradeship  with  the  dead.  But  how 
comes  it  that  death  is  so  frequent  among 
these  limpid  streams,  in  a  region  where 
the  air  is  so  invigorating  and  so  pure? 
These  tombs,  so  disquieting  in  their  dis- 
proportionate numbers,  are  ranged  in 
rows,  all  with  the  same  humble  crosses  of 
wood.  They  have  borders  of  ferns  care- 
fully watered,  or  of  little  pebbles,  well 
selected.  Flowers  such  as  thrive  in  shady 
places  and  are  common  in  these  parts, 
shoot  up  their  pretty  pink  spikes  all 
around,  and  the  whole  scene  is  steeped  in 
the  green  translucent  twilight  which 
envelops  the  whole  mountain,  the  twilight 
of  these  unchanging  trees,  pines  and 
11 


J 


;WV 


162  WAR 

larches,  stretching  away  into  infinity, 
crowded  together  like  wheat  in  a  field,  tall 
and  straight  like  gigantic  masts. 

In  our  haste  to  reach  that  Inn  of  the 
Good  Samaritan,  which  is  our  destination, 
we  keep  on  climbing  at  a  rapid  pace,  not- 
withstanding acute-angled  corners  where 
our  cars  have  to  back  before  they  can 
effect  the  turn,  and  other  awkward  places 
where  our  cars  slip  on  the  wet  soil,  skid, 
and  come  to  a  stop. 

These  tribes,  so  primitive  in  appear- 
ance, through  whose  midst  we  have  been 
travelling  since  the  morning,  seem  to  be 
concentrating  their  energies  especially  on 
making  these  roads,  which,  one  would 
think,  cannot  really  be  necessary  to  their 
simple  mode  of  existence.  In  our  onward 
course  we  meet  nearly  all  these  men,  work- 
ing with  might  and  main,  with  axes, 
shovels,  stakes  and  picks,  hurrying  as  if 
the  task  were  urgent.    They  stand  erect 


"VMv. 


WAR  163 

for  a  moment  to  salute  us,  smiling  a  little 
with  touching  and  respectful  familiarity, 
and  then  they  bend  down  again  to  their 
arduous  work,  levelling,  enlarging,  tim- 
bering, or  digging  out  roots  that  are  in  the 
way,  and  rocks  that  encroach.  And  when 
we  were  told  that  it  is  scarcely  ten  months 
since  they  began  this  exhausting  work  in 
the  midst  of  forest,  virgin  hitherto,  we  are 
fain  to  believe  that  all  the  Genii  of  the 
mountains  have  roused  themselves  and 
lent  their  magic  help. 

Oh !  what  tribute  of  admiration  mingled 
with  emotion  do  we  owe  to  these  men,  like- 
wise, the  builders  of  roads,  our  gallant  ter- 
ritorials, who  seem  to  be  playing  at  wild 
men  of  the  woods.  They  have  revived  for 
us  the  miracles  of  the  Roman  Legions  who 
so  speedily  opened  up  roads  for  their 
armies  through  the  forests  of  Gaul. 
Thanks  to  their  prodigious  labour,  per- 
formed without  a  break,  without  a  mur- 


^^,0(1^ 


^!<' 


164  WAE 

mur,  the  conditions  of  warfare  in  this 
region,  only  yesterday  still  inaccessible, 
wiU  be  radically  changed  for  the  benefit  of 
our  dear  soldiers.  Everything  will  reach 
them  on  the  heights  ten  times  more  ex- 
peditiously than  before^ — arms,  avenging 
shells,  rations ;  and  in  a  few  hours  the  seri- 
ously wounded  will  be  gently  driven  down' 
in  carriages  to  comfortable  field  hospitals 
in  the  plains. 

Roughly  speaking  at  an  altitude  of  about 
fourteen  or  fifteen  hundred  metres,  the 
ancient  forest  with  its  arching  trees  ends 
abruptly.  The  sky  is  deep  blue  above  our 
heads,  and  infinite  horizons  unfold  around 
us  their  great  spectacular  display  of  illu- 
sive images.  The  air  is  very  clear  and 
pure  to-day  in  honour  of  our  arrival,  and 
it  is  so  marvellously  transparent  that  we 
miss  no  detail  of  the  most  distant  land- 
scapes. 

We  are  told  that  we  have  reached  the 


WAE  165 

plateau  where  stands  that  hospitable  inn ; 
it  is,  however,  not  yet  in  sight.  But  the 
plateau  itself,  where  is  it  situated,  in 
which  country  of  the  world  ?  In  the  fore- 
ground around  us  and  below  nothing  is 
visible  except  summits  uniformly  wooded 
with  trees  of  the  same  species ;  this  brings 
back  to  mind  those  great,  monstrous  ex- 
panses of  forest  which  must  have  covered 
the  entire  earth  in  the  beginning  of  our 
geological  period,  but  it  is  characteristic 
of  no  particular  country  or  epoch  of  his- 
tory. In  the  distance,  it  is  true,  there  are 
signs  of  a  more  tell-tale  nature.  Thus 
yonder,  on  the  horizon,  that  succession  of 
mountains,  all  mantled  with  the  same  dark 
verdure,  bears  a  close  resemblance  to  the 
Black  Forest ;  that  chain  of  glaciers  over 
there,  silhouetting  so  clearly  against  the 
horizon  its  ridges  of  rosy  crystal,  might 
well  be  taken  for  the  Alps ;  and  that  peak 
in  particular  is  too  strikingly  like  the 


,^ 


166  WAR 

Jungfrau  to  admit  of  any  doubt.  But  I 
may  not  be  more  definite  in  my  descrip- 
tion; I  will  merely  say  that  those  bluish 
plains  in  the  East,  rolling  away  at  our 
feet  like  a  great  sea,  were  but  lately 
French,  and  are  now  about  to  become 
French  once  more. 

How  spacious  is  this  plateau,  and  how 
naked  it  stands  among  all  those  other  smn- 
mits  mantled  with  trees.  Here  there  is  not 
even  brushwood,  for  doubtless  the  winter 
winds  rage  too  fiercely ;  here  nothing  grows 
but  short,  thick  grass  and  little  stunted 
plants  with  insignificant  flowers.  It  is 
ecstasy  to  breathe  here  in  this  delicious 
intoxication  of  pure  air  and  of  spacious- 
ness and  light.  And  yet  there  is  some 
vague  sense  of  tragedy  about  the  place, 
due  perhaps  to  those  great  round  holes, 
freshly  made;  to  those  cruel  clefts  with 
which  here  and  there  the  earth  is  rent. 
What  can  have  fallen  here  from  the  sky, 


WAR  167 

leaving  such  scars  on  the  level  surface? 
We  are  warned,  moreover,  that  monstrous 
birds  of  a  very  dangerous  kind,  with  iron 
muscles,  often  come  and  hover  about  over- 
head in  that  fair  blue  sky.  And  from  time 
to  time  a  cannon  shot  from  some  invisible 
battery  comes  to  disturb  the  impressive 
silence  and  reverberates  in  the  valleys 
below;  and  then  comes,  long  drawn  out, 
the  whirring  of  a  shell,  like  a  flight  of 
partridges  going  past. 

We  notice  some  French  soldiers,  Alpine 
chasseurs,  or  cavalry  on  their  horses,  scat- 
tered in  groups  about  this  plain,  as  it  may 
be  called,  situated  at  such  an  altitude. 
At  this  moment  all  lift  their  heads  and 
look  in  the  same  direction ;  this  is  because 
one  of  those  great  dangerous  birds  has  just 
been  signalled ;  it  is  flying  proudly,  remote 
in  the  open  sky,  in  the  clear  blue.  But  im- 
mediately it  is  pursued  by  white  clouds, 
quite  miniature  clouds,  which  give  the 


/ 


168  WAR 

effect  of  being  created  instantaneously, 
only  to  vanish  as  quickly — ^little  explosions 
of  wMte  cotton  wool,  one  might  say — ^and 
it  seems  impossible  that  they  should  be 
freighted  with  death.  However,  that  evil 
bird  has  understood ;  he  is  aware  that  good 
marksmen  are  aiming  at  him,  and  he  turns 
back  on  hasty  wing,  while  our  soldiers 
gaily  burst  out  laughing. 

And  the  inn?  It  lies  just  in  front  of 
us,  a  few  hundred  paces  away;  it  is  that 
greyish  hut  with  its  gay  tricolour  floating 
on  the  light  breeze  of  these  altitudes,  but 
near  it  stands  a  very  lofty  cross  of  pine- 
wood,  four  or  five  yards  high,  stretching 
out  its  arms  as  in  solemn  warning. 

The  fact  is,  I  must  admit,  that  people 
die  very  frequently  at  this  Inn  of  the  Good 
Samaritan  or  in  its  neighbourhood,  and  it 
is  for  this  reason  that  in  the  beginning  I 
recommended  it  with  reserve.  It  is  sur- 
prising, is  it  not,  in  such  health-giving  air  ? 


■•*-% 


WAR  169 

But  the  truth  of  it  is  indisputable,  and  it 
has  been  necessary  hurriedly  to  attach  to 
it  a  cemetery  whose  existence  this  tall 
cross  of  pine  proclaims  from  afar  to 
travellers. 

Yes,  many  men  die  here,  but  they  die 
so  nobly,  a  death  of  all  deaths  most  desir- 
able— each  according  to  his  own  tempera- 
ment, according  to  the  nature  of  his  soul : 
some  in  the  calm  serenity  of  duty  done, 
others  in  magnificent  exaltation,  but  all  in 
glory. 

Can  this  be  the  famous  inn — ^in  other 
words  the  dwelling  of  those  officers  who 
command  this  outpost,  and  where  their 
friends  on  rare  and  brief  visits,  liaison 
officers,  bearers  of  dispatches,  etc.,  are  sure 
of  finding  such  cordial  and  genial  hospital- 
ity— this  modest  hutting  built  of  planks? 
So  it  is,  and  that  there  may  be  no  mistake, 
there  is  an  imposing  signboard  in  the 
fashion  of  old  times.    Shaped  like  a  shield. 


170  WAR 

it  hangs  from  an  iron  rod  and  bears  the  in- 
scription, *'Inn  of  the  Good  Samaritan." 
The  legend  is  painted  in  ornamental  let- 
ters, and  the  humour  of  it  is  irresistible 
among  such  Crusoe-like  destitution. 
Doubtless  one  day  some  officer  in  a  spe- 
cially happy  mood  thought  of  this  jest  as  a 
welcome  for  comrades  coming  thither  on 
special  duty.  Naturally  he  found  at  once 
among  his  men  one  who  was  a  carpenter 
and  another  a  decorator  in  civil  life,  both 
very  much  amused  at  being  ordered  to  put 
this  unpremeditated  idea  forthwith  into 
execution. 

The  furniture  of  the  inn  is  very  rough 
and  ready,  if  the  truth  be  told,  and  the  wall 
of  planks  just  shelters  you  from  the  snow 
or  rain,  but  from  the  wind  hardly,  and 
from  shells  not  at  all.  But  one  fills  one's 
lungs  to  the  full  with  the  air  that  reaches 
one  through  the  little  windows,  and  from 
the  threshold,  looking  downwards,  there  is 


^WH^„ 


WAR  171 

a  marvellous  bird^s-eye  view  of  great  for- 
ests, of  an  unending  chain  of  glaciers,  clear 
as  crystal,  of  unbounded  distances,  and 
even  over  the  tops  of  clouds. 

Ah  well !  all  along  the  battle  front  there 
are  such  Inns  of  the  Good  Samaritan. 
These  others  are  perched  less  high,  and 
they  do  not  bear  the  same  name;  indeed 
very  often  they  have  no  name  at  all ;  but 
in  all  of  them  prevails  the  same  spirit  of 
kindly  hospitality,  firm  confidence,  smiling 
endurance  and  cheerful  sacrifice.  Here, 
as  there,  betw^een  two  showers  of  shells, 
men  are  capable  of  amusing  themselves 
with  childish  trifles,  so  stout  of  heart  are 
they,  and  if  access  were  not  forbidden  on 
military  grounds  I  would  invite  all  pes- 
simists in  the  background,  who  have  doubts 
of  France  and  of  her  destiny,  to  come  here 
for  a  cure. 

And  now,  having  seen  the  inn,  let  us  pay 
a  pious  visit  to  the  annex,  the  inevitable 


172  WAR 

annex,  alas!  Around  the  wooden  cross 
which  dominates  it  is  a  piece  of  ground 
enclosed  with  an  open  fence,  made  of 
boughs  of  larch  artistically  intertwined. 
Within  its  bounds  those  tombs,  too  niuner- 
ous  already,  preserve  something  of  a  mili- 
tary aspect,  ranged  as  they  are  in  such 
correct  alignment  and  all  with  the  same 
little  crosses,  adorned  with  a  wreath  of 
greenery.  The  Cross !  In  spite  of  all  in- 
fidelity, denial,  scorn,  the  Cross  still  re- 
mains the  sign  to  which  a  tender  instinct 
of  atavism  recalls  us  at  the  approach  of 
death.  There  is  not  a  tree,  not  a  shrub, 
for  none  grow  here :  on  the  ground  there  is 
only  the  short  grass  that  grows  upon  this 
wind-swept  plateau.  An  attempt  has  been 
made,  to  be  sure,  to  make  borders  of  cer- 
tain stunted  plants  f  oimd  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, but  rows  of  pebbles  last  best.  And 
in  five  weeks  or  so,  thick  shrouds  of  snow 
wiU  begin  to  cover  up  everything,  imtil 


^*^ 


WAR  173 

another  spring  succeeds  the  snows  and  the 
grass  grows  green  again,  in  the  midst  of 
still  deeper  oblivion. 

Nevertheless  let  us  not  pity  them,  for 
they  have  had  the  better  part,  these  young 
dead  who  rest  there  on  that  glorious  moun- 
tain-top which  is  destined  to  become  once 
more,  after  the  war,  a  solitude  ineffably 
calm,  high  above  forest,  valley  and  plain. 


XVII 

FOR  THE  RESCUE  OF  OUR 
WOUNDED 

August,  1915. 

The  preservation  of  the  lives  of  our  dear 
wounded,  who  day  by  day  are  stricken 
down  upon  the  field  of  battle,  depends  nine 
times  out  of  ten  on  the  rapidity  with  which 
they  are  carried  in ;  on  the  gentleness  and 
promptness  with  which  they  are  taken  to 
the  field  hospitals,  where  they  may  be  put 
into  comfortable  beds  and  left  in  the  care 
of  all  the  kind  hands  that  are  waiting  for 
them.  This  fact  is  not  sufficiently  well 
known;  often  it  happens  that  wounds 
which  would  have  been  trifling  have  be- 
come septic  and  mortal  because  they  have 
been  left  too  long  covered  with  inadequate, 
uncleanly  bandages,  or  have  trailed  for 
man}^  hours  on  the  earth  or  in  the  mud. 

In  the  first  weeks  of  the  war  when  we 
were  taken  unawares  by  the  barbarians' 

174 


V 


WAR  175 

attack,  treacherous  and  sudden  as  a  thun- 
derbolt, it  was  not  bullets  and  shrapnel 
alone  that  killed  the  sons  of  France. 
Often,  too,  it  happened  that  help  was  slow 
in  arriving;  sufficient  haste  could  not  be 
made,  and  it  was  impossible  to  cope  right 
at  the  beginning  with  these  shortcomings, 
in  spite  of  much  admirable  devotion  and 
ingenuity  in  multiplying  and  improving 
the  means  of  service.  Since  then  helpers 
have  poured  in  from  all  sides ;  gifts  have 
been  showered  with  open  hands ;  organisa- 
tion has  been  created  with  loving  zeal,  and 
things  are  already  working  very  well.  But 
much  still  remains  to  be  done,  for  the  work 
is  immense  and  complex,  and  it  is  our  duty 
to  hold  ourselves  more  than  ever  in  readi- 
ness, in  anticipation  of  great  final  strug- 
gles for  deliverance. 

Now  a  society  is  being  formed  for  send- 
ing to  the  Front  some  fresh  squadrons  of 
fast  motor-ambulances,  furnished  with 
cots  and  mattresses  of  improved  design. 

r 


176  WAR 

Thus  thousands  more  of  our  wounded  will 
be  laid  immediately  between  clean  sheets, 
then  brought  into  hospital  with  all  speed, 
without  that  delay  which  is  a  cause  of  gan- 
grened wounds,  without  those  jolts  that 
aggravate  the  pain  of  fractured  bones  and 
inflict  yet  more  grievous  suffering  on  those 
dear  bruised  heads. 

But  in  spite  of  the  first  magnificent  dona- 
tions, a  remainder  of  the  money  has  still 
to  be  found  to  complete  the  enterprise 
satisfactorily.  And  so  I  beseech  all 
mothers,  whose  sons  may  fall  at  any  mo- 
ment ;  I  beseech  all  those  who  have  in  the 
firing-line  a  kinsman  dear  to  them;  I  be- 
seech them  to  send  their  offerings  without 
hesitation,  without  calculation,  so  that 
soon,  before  the  April  battles  begin,  sev- 
eral hundreds  of  those  great  life-saving 
ambulances  may  be  ready  to  start,  which 
will  assuredly  preserve  for  us  a  vast 
number  of  precious  lives. 


XVIII 

AT  RHEIMS 

August,  1915. 

On  a  beautiful  August  evening  I  am 
hastening  in  a  motor  car  towards  Rheims, 
one  of  our  martyred  towns,  where  I  am 
hoping  to  find  shelter  for  the  night  before 
continuing  my  journey  to  the  General 
Headquarters  of  another  Army.  In  order 
to  avoid  military  formalities  I  wish  to 
enter  the  town  before  the  sun  sets,  and  it 
is  already  too  low  for  my  liking. 

The  evening  is  typical  of  one  of  our 
splendid  French  summers ;  the  air  is  ex- 
quisitely clear,  of  a  delightful,  wholesome 
warmth,  tempered  with  a  light,  refreshing 
breeze.  On  the  hillsides  of  Champagne 
the  beautiful  vines  on  which  the  grapes 
are  ripening  spread  a  uniform  expanse  of 
green  carpet,  and  there  are  so  many  trees, 

12  177 


178  WAR 

so  many  flowers  everywhere,  gardens  in 
all  the  villages,  and  roses  climbing  up  all 
the  walls. 

To-day  the  cannon  is  heard  no  more,  and 
one  would  be  tempted  to  forget  that  the 
barbarians  are  there  close  at  hand  if  there 
were  not  so  many  improvised  cemeteries 
all  along  the  road.  Ever3rwhere  there  are 
these  little  graves  of  soldiers,  all  alike, 
which  are  now  to  be  found  from  end  to 
end  of  our  beloved  France,  all  along  the 
battle  front ;  their  simple  crosses  of  wood 
are  ranged  in  straight  lines  as  if  for  a 
parade,  topped,  some  of  them,  with  a 
wreath ;  others  still  more  pathetically  with 
a  simple  service-cap,  red  or  blue,  falling 
to  rags.    We  salute  them  as  we  pass. 

Among  these  glorious  dead  there  are 
some  whose  kindred  will  seek  them  out 
and  bring  them  back  to  the  province  of 
their  birth  later,  when  the  barbarians  have 
gone  away,  while  others,  less  favoured,  will 


WAR  179 

remain  there  f oreve]:  until  the  great  final 
day  of  oblivion.  But  what  masses  of 
flowers  people  have  already  been  at  pains 
to  plant  there  for  them  all.  Around  their 
resting-place  there  is  a  brave  show  of  all 
shades  of  brilliant  colour,  dahlias,  cannas, 
China  asters,  roses.  Who  has  undertaken 
this  labour  of  love  ?  Girls  from  the  near- 
est villages'?  Or  perhaps  even  their  own 
brothers-in-arms,  who  dwell  on  the  out- 
skirts everywhere  like  invisible  subter- 
ranean tribes  in  these  casemates,  trench 
shelters,  dug-outs  of  every  shape  covered 
over  with  green  branches  ■? 

This  region,  you  must  know,  is  not  very 
safe,  and  when  we  arrive  at  a  section  of 
the  road  which  is  too  much  exposed,  a 
sentinel,  especially  posted  there  to  give 
warning,  instructs  us  to  leave  the  high 
road  for  a  moment,  where  we  should  run 
the  risk  of  being  seen  and  shelled,  and  to 
take  some  sheltered  traverse  behind  the 
curtains  of  poplars. 


180  WAE 

One  of  my  soldier-chauffeurs  suddenly 
turns  round  to  say  to  me ; 

^^Oh  look,  sir,  there  is  an  Arab  ceme- 
tery. They  have  put  on  each  grave  their 
little  crescents  instead  of  the  cross/' 

Here  to  be  sure  the  humble  stelae  of 
white  wood  are  all  topped  with  the  cres- 
cent of  Islam,  and  this  is  something  of  a 
shock  to  us  in  the  very  heart  of  France. 
Poor  fellows,  who  died  for  our  righteous 
cause,  so  far  from  their  mosques  and  their 
marabouts  they  sleep,  and  alas!  without 
facing  Mecca,  because  they  who  laid  them 
piously  to  rest  did  not  know  that  this  was 
to  them  a  requisite  of  peaceful  slumber! 
But  the  same  profusion  of  flowers  has 
been  brought  to  them  as  to  our  own  coun- 
trymen, and  I  need  not  say  that  we  salute 
them  likewise — a  little  late,  perhaps,  for 
we  pass  them  so  rapidly. 

We  reach  Rheims  just  before  sunset,  and 
here  a  sudden  sadness  chills  us.    All  is 


WAR  181 

silent  and  the  streets  almost  deserted.  The 
shops  are  closed,  and  some  of  the  houses 
seem  to  gape  at  us  with  enormous  holes  in 
their  walls. 

One  of  the  infrequent  wayfarers  tells 
us  that  at  the  Hotel  Golden  Lion,  Cathe- 
dral Square,  we  may  still  be  able  to  find 
someone  to  take  us  in,  and  soon  we  are  at 
the  very  foot  of  the  noble  ruin,  which  is 
still  enthroned  as  majestically  as  ever  in 
the  midst  of  the  martyred  town,  dominat- 
ing everything  with  its  two  towers  of  open 
stone-work.  I  stop  my  car,  the  sound  of 
whose  rolling  in  such  a  place  seems  prof- 
anation; the  sadness  of  ruins  is  intensi- 
fied here  into  veritable  anguish,  and  the 
silence  is  such  that  instinctively  we  begin 
to  talk  softly,  as  if  we  had  already  entered 
the  great  church  that  has  perished. 

The  Golden  Lion — but  its  panes  of 
glass  are  broken,  the  doors  stand  open,  the 
courtyard  is  deserted.    I  send  one  of  my 


182  WAR 

soldiers  there,  bidding  him  call,  but  not 
too  loudly,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  mourn- 
ful meditation.  He  returns;  he  has  re- 
ceived no  reply  and  has  seen  holes  in  the 
walls.  The  house  is  deserted.  We  must 
seek  elsewhere. 

It  is  twilight.  A  golden  after-glow  still 
lingers  around  the  magnificent  summits  of 
the  towers,  while  the  base  is  wrapped  in 
shadow.  Oh,  the  cathedral,  the  marvellous 
cathedral !  what  a  work  of  destruction  the 
barbarians  have  continued  to  accomplish 
here  since  my  pilgrimage  of  last  Novem- 
ber. It  had  ever  been  a  lace-work  of  stone, 
and  now  it  is  nothing  but  a  lace-work  torn 
in  tatters,  pierced  with  a  thousand  holes. 
By  what  miracle  does  it  still  hold  together  ? 
It  seems  as  if  to-day  the  least  shock,  a 
breath  of  wind  perhaps,  would  suffice  to 
cause  it  to  crumble  away,  to  resolve  itself, 
as  it  were,  into  scattered  atoms.  How  can 
it  ever  be  repaired?     What  scaffolding 


WAR  183 

could  one  dare  to  let  lean  against  those 
imstable  ruins.  In  an  attempt  to  afford  it 
yet  a  little  protection  sandbags  have  been 
piled  up,  mountain  high,  against  the  pil- 
lars of  the  porticoes,  the  same  precaution 
that  has  been  taken  in  the  case  of  St. 
Mark's  in  Venice,  of  Milan,  of  all  those 
inimitable  masterpieces  of  past  ages 
which  are  menaced  by  the  refined  culture 
of  Germany.  Here  the  precautions  are 
vain;  it  is  too  late,  the  cathedral  is  lost, 
and  our  hearts  are  wrung  with  sorrow  and 
indignation  as  we  look  this  evening  upon 
this  sacred  relic  of  our  past,  our  art,  and 
our  faith,  in  its  death  throes  and  its  aban- 
donment. Ah,  what  savages !  And  to  feel 
that  they  are  still  there,  close  at  hand, 
capable  of  giving  it  at  any  hour  its  coup 
de  grace. 

To  bid  it  farewell,  perhaps  a  last  fare- 
well, we  will  walk  around  it  slowly  with 
solemn  tread,  in  the  midst  of  this  death- 


184  WAR 

like  silence  which  seems  to  grow  more 
intense  as  the  light  fails. 

But  suddenly,  just  as  we  are  passing  the 
ruins  of  the  episcopal  palace,  we  hear  a 
prelude  of  sound,  a  tremendous,  hollow 
uproar,  something  like  the  rumbling  of  a 
terrible  thunderstorm,  near  at  hand  and 
unceasing.  And  yet  the  evening  sky  is  so 
clear !  Ah  yes,  we  were  warned,  we  know 
whence  it  comes ;  it  is  the  bombardment  of 
our  heavy  artillery,  which  was  expected 
half  an  hour  after  sunset,  directed  at  the 
barbarians '  trenches.  This  is  a  change  for 
us  from  the  silence,  this  cataclysmal  music, 
and  it  contributes  to  our  walk  a  different 
kind  of  sadness,  another  form  of  horror. 
And  we  continue  to  gaze  at  the  wonderful 
stone  carving  overhanging  us — the  bold 
little  arches,  the  immense  pointed  arches, 
so  frail  and  so  exquisite.  Indeed  how  does 
it  all  still  hold  together  ?  Up  above  there 
are  little  columns  which  have  lost  their 


WAR  185 

base  and  remain,  as  it  were,  suspended  in 
the  air  by  their  capitals.  The  windows 
are  no  more ;  the  lovely  rose-windows  have 
been  destroyed ;  the  nave  has  huge  fissures 
from  top  to  bottom.  In  the  twilight  the 
whole  cathedral  assumes  more  and  more 
its  phantom-like  aspect,  and  that  noise 
which  causes  everything  to  vibrate  is  still 
increasing.  It  is  a  question  whether  so 
many  vibrations  will  not  bring  about  the 
final  downfall  of  those  too  fragile  carv- 
ings which  hitherto  have  held  on  so  per- 
sistently at  such  great  heights  above  our 
heads. 

Here  comes  the  first  wayfarer  in  that 
solitude,  a  well-dressed  person.  He  is  hur- 
rjdng,  actually  rimning. 

**Do  not  stay  there,"  he  shouts  to  us; 
**do  you  not  see  that  they  are  going  to 
bombard?" 

' '  But  it  is  we,  the  French,  who  are  firing. 
It  is  our  own  artillery.  Come,  do  not  run 
so  fast." 


186  WAR 

^*I  know  very  well  that  it  is  we,  but  each 
time  the  enemy  revenge  themselves  on  the 
cathedral.  I  tell  you  that  there  will  be  a 
rain  of  shells  here  immediately.  Look  out 
for  yourselves." 

He  goes  on.  So  much  the  better ;  it  was 
kind  of  him  to  warn  us,  but  his  jacket  and 
his  billy-cock  jarred  upon  the  melancholy 
grandeur  of  the  scene. 

Where  a  street  opens  into  the  square  two 
girls  now  appear;  they  stop  and  hesitate. 
Evidently  they  are  aware,  these  two,  that 
the  barbarians  have  a  habit  of  taking  a 
noble  revenge  upon  the  cathedral,  and  that 
shells  are  about  to  fall.  But  doubtless 
they  have  to  cross  this  square  in  order  to 
reach  their  home,  to  get  down  into  their 
cellar.    Will  they  have  time  ? 

They  are  graceful  and  pretty,  fair,  bare- 
headed, with  their  hair  arranged  in 
simple  bands.  They  gaze  into  the  air  with 
their  eyes  raised  well  up  towards  the 


WAR  187 

heavens,  perhaps  to  see  if  death  is  begin- 
ning to  pass  that  way,  but  more  likely  to 
send  up  thither  a  prayer.  I  know  not 
what  last  brightness  of  the  twilight,  in 
spite  of  the  encroaching  gloom,  illumines 
so  delightfully  their  two  upturned  faces, 
and  they  look  like  saints  in  stained-glass 
windows.  Both  make  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
and  then  they  make  up  their  minds,  and 
hand  in  hand  they  run  across  the  square. 
With  their  religious  gestures,  their  faces 
expressing  anxiety,  yet  courage  too  and 
defiance,  they  suddenly  seem  to  me  charm- 
ing symbols  of  the  girlhood  of  France; 
they  run  away,  indeed,  but  it  is  clear  that 
they  would  remain  without  fear  if  there 
were  some  wounded  man  to  carry  away, 
some  duty  to  perform.  And  their  flight 
seems  very  airy  in  the  midst  of  this  tre- 
mendous uproar  like  the  end  of  the  world. 
We  are  going  away  too,  for  it  is  wiser. 
In  the  streets  there  are  a  very  few  way- 


188  WAR 

farers  who  are  running  to  take  shelter, 
running  with  their  backs  hunched  up, 
although  nothing  is  falling  yet,  like  people 
without  umbrellas  surprised  by  a  shower. 
One  of  them,  who  nevertheless  does  not 
mind  stopping,  points  out  to  us  the  last 
hotel  still  remaining  open,  a  "perfectly 
safe^'  hotel,  he  says,  over  there  in  a  quarter 
of  the  town  where  no  shell  has  ever  fallen. 
God  forbid  that  I  should  dream  of  laugh- 
ing at  them,  or  fail  to  admire  as  much  as  it 
deserves  their  persistent  and  calm  heroism 
in  remaining  here,  in  defiance  of  every- 
thing, in  their  beloved  town,  which  is  suf- 
fering more  and  more  mutilations.  But 
who  would  not  be  amused  at  that  instinct 
which  causes  the  majority  of  mankind  to 
hunch  their  backs  against  hail  of  what- 
ever description  ?  And  then,  is  it  because 
the  air  is  fresh  and  soft  and  it  is  good 
to  be  alive  that  after  the  unspeakable 
heartache  at  the  sight  of  the  cathedral  and 


WAR  189 

the  passion  verging  on  tears,  a  calm  of 
reaction  sets  in  and  in  that  moment  every- 
thing amuses  me? 

At  the  end  of  a  quiet  street,  where  the 
noise  of  the  cannonade  is  muffled  in  the 
distance,  we  find  the  hotel  which  was 
recommended  to  us. 

'*  Rooms, "  says  the  host,  very  pleasantly, 
standing  on  his  doorstep,  **oh,  as  many  as 
you  like,  the  whole  hotel  if  you  wish,  for 
you  will  understand  that  in  times  such  as 

these  travellers And  yet  as  far  as 

shells  go  you  have  nothing  to  fear  here.'* 

An  appalling  din  interrupts  his  sen- 
tence. All  the  windows  in  the  front  of 
the  house  are  shivered  to  fragments,  to- 
gether with  tiles,  plaster,  branches  of 
trees.  In  his  haste  to  run  away  and  hide 
he  misses  the  step  on  the  threshold  and 
falls  down  flat  on  his  face.  A  dog  who 
was  coming  along  jumps  upon  him,  fuU  of 
importance,  recalling  him  to  order  with  a 


190  WAR 

fierce  bark.  A  cat,  sprung  from  I  know 
not  where,  flies  through  space  like  an  aero- 
lith,  uses  my  shoulder  for  a  jumping-off 
place,  and  is  swallowed  up  by  the  mouth 
of  a  cellar.  But  words  are  too  tedious  for 
that  series  of  catastrophes,  which  lasts 
scarcely  as  long  as  two  lightning  flashes. 
And  they  continue  to  bombard  us  with 
admirable  regularity,  as  if  timing  them- 
selves with  a  metronome ;  the  wall  of  the 
house  is  already  riddled  with  scars. 

It  is  very  wrong,  I  admit,  to  take  these 
things  as  a  jest,  and  indeed  with  me  that 
impression  is  only  superficial,  physical,  I 
might  say ;  that  which  endures  in  the  depth 
of  my  soul  is  indignation,  anguish,  pity. 
But  at  this  entry  which  the  Germans  made 
into  our  hotel,  that  peaceful  spot,  with 
flourish  of  their  great  orchestra,  in  the 
presence  of  so  many  surprises,  how  retain 
one's  dignity?  There  is  a  fair  number  of 
little  shells,  it  seems,  but  no  heavy  shells ; 


WAR  191 

they  travel  with  their  long  whistling 
sound,  and  burst  with  a  harsh  din. 

"Into  the  cellar,  gentlemen,"  cries  the 
innkeeper,  who  has  picked  himself  up  un- 
hurt. Apparently  there  is  nothing  else  to 
be  done.  I  should  have  come  to  that  con- 
clusion myself.  So  I  turn  round  to  order 
in  my  three  soldiers  too,  who  had  remained 
outside  to  look  at  a  hole  made  by  shrapnel 
in  the  body  of  the  car.  But  upon  my  word 
I  believe  they  are  laughing,  the  heartless 
wretches ;  and  then  I  can  restrain  myself 
no  longer,  I  burst  out  laughing  too. 

Yes,  it  is  very  wrong  of  us,  for  presently 
there  will  be  bloodshed  and  death.  But 
how  resist  the  humour  of  it  all :  the  good 
man  fallen  flat  on  his  face,  the  self-impor- 
tance of  the  dog,  who  thought  he  must  put 
a  stop  to  the  situation,  and  especially  the 
cat,  the  cat  swallowed  up  by  an  air-hole 
after  showing  us  as  a  supreme  exhibition 
of  flight  its  little  hindquarters  with  its  tail 
in  the  air. 


XIX 

THE  DEATH-BEARING  GAS 
November,  1915. 

It  is  a  place  of  horror,  conceived,  it 
might  be  thought,  by  Dante.  The  air  is 
heavy,  stifling;  two  or  three  nightlights, 
which  seem  to  be  afraid  of  shining  too 
brightly,  scarcely  pierce  the  vaporous, 
overheated  darkness  which  exhales  an 
odour  of  sweat  and  fever.  Busy  people 
are  whispering  there  anxiously,  but  the 
principal  sound  that  is  heard  is  an  ago- 
nised gasping  for  breath.  This  gasping 
comes  from  a  number  of  cots,  in  rows, 
touching  one  another,  on  which  are  lying 
human  forms,  their  chests  heaving  with 
rapid  and  laboured  breathing,  lifting  the 
bedclothes  as  though  the  moment  of  the 
death-rattle  had  come. 

This  is  one  of  our  advance  field  hos- 

192 


WAR  193 

pitals,  improvised,  as  best  might  be,  the 
day  after  one*of  the  most  damnable  abomi- 
nations committed  by  the  Germans.  The 
nature  of  their  affliction  made  it  impos- 
sible to  transfer  all  these  sons  of  France, 
from  whom  seems  to  come  the  noise  of  the 
death-rattle  without  hope  of  recovery,  to 
a  place  farther  away.  This  large  hall  with 
dilapidated  walls  was  yesterday  a  wine  cel- 
lar for  storing  barrels  of  champagne ;  these 
cots — about  fifty  in  number — were  made 
in  feverish  haste  of  branches  which  still 
retain  their  bark,  and  they  resemble  the 
kind  of  furniture  in  our  gardens  that  we 
call  rustic.  But  why  is  there  this  heat,  in 
which  it  is  almost  impossible  to  draw  a 
natural  breath,  pouring  out  from  those 
stoves?  The  reason  for  it  is  that  it  is 
never  hot  enough  for  the  lungs  of  persons 
who  have  been  asphyxiated.  And  this 
darkness:  wherefore  this  darkness,  which 
gives  a  Dantesque  aspect  to  this  place  of 

13 


194  WAR 

torment,  and  which  must  be  such  a  hin- 
drance to  the  gentle,  white-gowned  nurses  ? 
It  is  because  the  barbarians  are  there  in 
their  burrows,  quite  near  this  village,  with 
the  shattering  of  whose  houses  and  church 
spire  they  have  more  than  once  amused 
themselves;  and  if,  at  the  gloomy  fall  of 
a  November  night,  through  their  ever 
watchful  field-glasses,  they  saw  a  range  of 
lighted  windows  indicating  a  long  hall, 
they  would  at  once  guess  that  there  was 
a  field  hospital,  and  shells  would  be  show- 
ered down  upon  the  humble  cots.  It  is 
well  known,  this  preference  of  theirs  for 
shelling  hospitals,  Red  Cross  convoys, 
churches. 

And  so  there  is  scarcely  light  enough  to 
see  through  that  misty  vapour  which  rises 
from  water  boiling  in  pans.  Every  minute 
nurses  fetch  huge  black  balloons,  and  the 
patients  nearest  to  suffocation  stretch  out 
their  poor  hands  for  them;  they  contain 


WAR  195 

oxygen,  which  eases  the  lungs  and  alle- 
viates the  suffering.  Many  of  them  have 
these  black  balloons  resting  on  chests  pant- 
ing for  breath,  and  in  their  mouths  they 
are  holding  eagerly  the  tube  through  which 
the  life-saving  gas  escapes.  They  are  like 
big  children  with  feeding  bottles ;  it  adds 
a  kind  of  grisly  burlesque  to  these  scenes 
of  horror.  Asphyxia  has  different  effects 
upon  different  constitutions,  and  calls  for 
variety  in  treatment.  Some  of  the  suf- 
ferers, lying  almost  naked  on  their  beds, 
are  covered  with  cupping-glasses,  or 
painted  all  over  with  tincture  of  iodine. 
Others  even — these  alas!  are  very  seri- 
ously affected  indeed — others  are  all  swol- 
len, chest,  arms,  and  face,  and  resemble 
toy  figures  of  bl own-up  gold-beater's  skin. 
Toy  figures  of  gold-beater's  skin,  children 
with  feeding  bottles — although  these  com- 
parisons alone  are  true,  yet  indeed  it  seems 
almost  sacrilege  to  make  use  of  them  when 


196  WAR 

the  heart  is  wrung  with  anguish  and  you  are 
ready  to  weep  tears  of  pity  and  of  wrath. 
But  may  these  comparisons,  brutal  as  they 
are,  engrave  themselves  all  the  more  deeply 
upon  the  minds  of  men  by  reason  of  their 
very  imseemliness,  to  foster  there  for  a 
still  longer  time  indignant  hatred  and  a 
thirst  for  holy  reprisals. 

For  there  is  one  man  who  spent  a  long 
time  preparing  all  this  for  us,  and  this  man 
still  goes  on  living ;  he  lives,  and  since  re- 
morse is  doubtless  foreign  to  his  vulturine 
soul,  he  does  not  even  suffer,  unless  it  be 
rage  at  having  missed  his  mark,  at  least 
for  the  present.  Before  thus  unloosing 
death  upon  the  world  he  had  coldly  com- 
bined all  his  plans,  had  foreseen  every- 
thing. 

*^But  nevertheless  supposing,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "my  great  rhinoceros-like  on- 
rushes and  my  vast  apparatus  of  carnage 
were  by  some  impossible  chance  to  hurl 


WAR  197 

itself  in  vain  against  a  resistance  too  mag- 
nificent ?  In  that  case  I  should  dare  per- 
haps, calculating  on  the  weakness  of  neu- 
tral nations,  I  should  dare  perhaps  to  defy 
all  the  laws  of  civilisation,  and  to  use 
other  means.  At  all  hazards  let  us  be 
prepared/' 

And,  to  be  sure,  the  onrush  failed,  and, 
timidly  at  first,  fearing  universal  indigna- 
tion, he  tried  asphyxiation  after  exerting 
himself,  be  it  understood,  to  mislead  pub- 
lic opinion,  accusing,  with  his  customary 
mendacity,  France  of  having  been  the 
originator.  His  cynical  hope  was  justi- 
fied ;  there  has  been,  alas !  no  general  arous- 
ing of  the  human  conscience.  No  more 
at  this  than  at  earlier  crimes — organised 
pillage,  destruction  of  cathedrals,  outrage, 
massacres  of  children  and  women — ^have 
the  neutral  nations  stirred ;  it  seems  indeed 
as  if  the  crafty,  ferocious,  deathly  look  of 
his  Gorgon-like  or  Medusa-like  head  had 


j^ 

X'—: 


198  WAR 

frozen  them  all  to  the  spot.  And  at  the 
present  hour  in  which  I  am  writing  the 
last  to  be  turned  to  stone  by  the  Medusa 
glare  of  the  monster  is  that  unfortunate 
King  of  Greece,  inconsistent  and  bung- 
ling, who  is  trembling  on  the  brink  of  a 
precipice  of  most  terrible  crimes.  That 
some  nations  remain  neutral  from  fear, 
that  indeed  is  comprehensive  enough ;  but 
that  nations,  otherwise  held  in  the  highest 
repute,  can  remain  pro-German  in  senti- 
ment, passes  our  understanding.  By  what 
arts  have  they  been  blinded,  these  nations ; 
by  what  slanders,  or  by  what  bribe  ? 

Our  dear  soldiers  with  their  seared 
lungs,  gasping  on  their  "rustic"  cots,  seem 
grateful  when,  following  in  the  major's 
footsteps,  someone  approaches  them,  and 
they  look  at  the  visitor  with  gentle  eyes 
when  he  takes  their  hand.  Here  is  a  man 
all  swollen,  doubtless  unrecognisable  by 
those  who  had  only  seen  him  before  this 


WAR  199 

terrible  turgidity,  and  if  you  touch  his 
poor,  distended  cheeks  however  lightly,  the 
fingers  feel  the  crackling  of  the  gases  that 
have  infiltrated  between  skin  and  flesh. 

''Come,  he  is  better  than  he  was  this 
morning,"  says  the  major,  and  in  a  low 
voice  meant  for  the  nurse's  ear,  he  con- 
tinues, "This  man  too,  nurse,  I  am  be- 
ginning to  think  that  we  shall  save.  But 
you  must  not  leave  him  alone  for  one  mo- 
ment on  any  account." 

Oh,  what  unnecessary  advice,  for  she  has 
not  the  smallest  intention  of  leaving  him 
alone,  this  white-gowned  nurse,  whose  eyes 
have  already  black  rings  around  them,  the 
result  of  a  watch  of  forty-eight  hours  with- 
out a  break.  Not  one  of  them  will  be  left 
alone,  oh  no !  To  be  sure  of  this,  it  is  suffi- 
cient to  glance  at  all  those  young  doctors 
and  all  those  nurses,  somewhat  exhausted, 
it  is  true,  but  so  attentive  and  brave,  who 
will  never  let  them  out  of  their  sight. 


200  WAR 

And,  thank  heaven,  nearly  all  of  them 
will  be  saved. ^  As  soon  as  they  are  well 
enough  to  be  moved  they  will  be  taken  far 
away  from  this  Gehenna  at  the  Front, 
where  the  Kaiser's  shells  delight  to  hurl 
themselves  upon  the  dying.  They  will  be 
put  more  comfortably  to  bed  in  quiet  field 
hospitals,  where  indeed  they  will  suffer 
greatly  for  a  week,  a  fortnight,  a  month, 
but  whence  they  will  emerge  without  ex- 
cessive delay,  better  advised,  more  pru- 
dent, in  haste  to  return  once  more  to  the 
battle. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  scheme  of  gas 
attacks  has  failed,  like  that  other  scheme 
of  attacks  in  great  savage  onrushes.  The 
result  was  not  what  the  Gorgon's  head  had 
expected,  and  yet  with  what  accurate  cal- 
culation the  time  for  these  attacks  has  been 
selected,  always  at  the  most  favourable 

^  Of  six  hundred  who  were  gassed  that  night, 
more  than  five  hundred  are  out  of  danger. 


WAR  201 

moment.  It  is  well  known  that  the  Ger- 
mans, past  masters  of  the  art  of  spying, 
and  always  informed  of  everything,  never 
hesitate  to  choose  for  their  attacks  of  what- 
ever kind,  days  of  relief,  hours  when  new- 
comers in  the  trenches  opposite  to  them 
are  still  in  the  disorder  of  their  arrival. 
So  on  the  evening  on  which  the  last  crime 
was  committed  six  hundred  of  our  men  had 
just  taken  up  their  advanced  position  after 
a  long  and  tiring  march.  Suddenly  in  the 
midst  of  a  volley  of  shells  which  surprised 
them  in  their  first  sleep,  they  could  dis- 
tinguish, here  and  there,  little  cautious 
sibilant  sounds,  as  if  made  stealthily  by 
sirens.  This  was  the  death-bearing  gas 
which  was  diffusing  itself  around  them, 
spreading  out  its  thick,  gloomy,  grey 
clouds.  At  the  same  time  their  signal 
lights  suddenly  ceased  to  throw  out 
through  that  mist  more  than  a  little  dim 
illumination.     Then  distracted,   already 


202  WAR 

suffocating,  they  remembered  too  late 
those  masks  which  had  been  given  them, 
and  in  which  in  any  case  they  had  no  faith. 
They  were  awkward  in  putting  them  on; 
some  of  them,  feeling  the  scorching  of  their 
bronchia,  urged  by  an  irresistible  impulse 
of  self-preservation,  even  yielded  to  a  de- 
sire to  run,  and  it  was  these  who  were  most 
terribly  affected,  for,  breathing  deeply  in 
the  effort  of  running,  they  inhaled  vast 
quantities  of  chlorine  gas.  But  another 
time  they  will  not  let  themselves  be  caught 
in  this  way,  neither  these  nor  any  others 
of  our  soldiers.  Wearing  masks  hermet- 
ically closed,  they  will  station  themselves 
immovably  around  piles  of  wood,  pre- 
pared beforehand,  whence  sudden  flames 
will  arise,  neutralising  the  poisons  in  the 
air,  and  the  upshot  of  it  all  will  be  hardly 
more  than  an  uncomfortable  hour,  un- 
pleasant while  it  lasts,  but  almost  always 
without  fatal  result.     It  is  true  that  in 


WAR  203 

those  accursed  dens  which  are  their  lab- 
oratories, Germany's  learned  men,  con- 
vinced now  that  the  neutral  nations  will 
acquiesce  in  anjrthing,  are  making  every 
effort  to  discover  worse  poisons  still  for 
us,  but  until  they  have  found  them,  as  on 
so  many  other  occasions,  the  Gorgon  gaze 
will  have  missed  its  mark.  So  much  is 
certain.  We,  alas!  have  as  yet  found  no 
means  of  returning  them  a  sufficiently 
cruel  equivalent ;  we  have  no  defence  other 
than  the  protective  mask,  which,  however, 
is  being  perfected  day  by  day.  And,  after 
all,  in  the  eyes  of  neutral  nations,  if  they 
still  have  eyes  to  see,  it  is  perhaps  more 
dignified  to  make  use  of  nothing  else.  At 
the  same  time,  how  very  different  our  posi- 
tion would  be  if  we  succeeded  in  asphyxi- 
ating them  too,  these  plunderers,  assassins, 
aggressors,  who  broke  into  our  country 
like  burglars,  and  who,  despairing  of  ever 
bursting  through  our  lines,  attempt  to 


204  WAR 

smoke  us  out  ignominiously  in  our  own 
home,  in  our  own  dear  country  of  France, 
as  they  might  smoke  out  rabbits  in  their 
burrows,  rats  in  their  holes.  No  language 
of  man  had  ever  anticipated  such  trans- 
cendent acts  of  infamy  which  would  revolt 
the  most  degraded  cannibals,  and  so  there 
are  no  names  for  such  acts.  Our  poor 
victims  of  their  gas,  panting  for  breath 
in  their  cots,  how  ardently  I  wish  that  I 
could  exhibit  them  to  all  the  world,  to  their 
fathers,  sons,  and  brothers,  to  excite  in 
them  a  paroxysm  of  sacred  indignation 
and  thirst  for  vengeance.  Yes,  exhibit 
them  everywhere,  to  let  everyone  hear  the 
death-rattle,  even  those  neutral  nations 
who  are  so  impassive ;  to  convict  of  obtuse- 
ness  or  of  crime  all  those  obstinate  Paci- 
ficists, and  to  sound  throughout  the  world 
the  alarm  against  the  barbarians  who  are 
in  eruption  all  over  Europe. 


XX 

ALL-SOULS'  DAY  WITH  THE 
ARMIES  AT  THE  FRONT 

2nd  November,  1915. 
Two  or  three  days  ago  all  along  the  front 
of  the  battle  began  the  great  festival  in 
honour  of  our  soldiers'  graves.  No  mat- 
ter where  they  lie,  grouped  around 
churches  in  the  ordinary  village  ceme- 
teries, ranged  in  rows  with  military  preci- 
sion in  little  special  cemeteries  consecrated 
to  them,  or  even  situated  singly  at  the  side 
of  a  road,  in  a  corner  of  a  wood,  or  alone 
and  lost  in  the  midst  of  fields,  everywhere, 
seen  from  afar  off,  under  the  gloomy  sky 
of  these  November  days  and  against  the 
greyish  background  of  the  countryside, 
they  attract  the  eyes  with  the  brilliant 
newness  of  their  decorations.  Each  grave 
is  decked  with  at  least  four  fine  tricolours, 

205 


206  WAR 

their  flagstaffs  planted  in  the  ground,  two 
at  the  head,  two  at  the  foot,  and  an  infinite 
number  of  flowers  and  wreaths  tied  with 
ribbons.  It  was  the  officers  and  the  com- 
rades of  our  dead  soldiers  who  subscribed 
together  to  give  them  all  this,  and  who, 
sometimes  in  spite  of  great  difficulties, 
sent  to  the  neighbouring  towns  for  the 
decorations,  and  then  arranged  them  all 
with  such  pious  care,  even  on  the 
graves  of  those  of  whom  little  was  known, 
and  of  those  poor  men,  few  in  number, 
whose  very  names  have  perished. 

Here  in  this  village  where  I  chance  to 
be  staying  in  the  course  of  my  journey, 
the  cemetery  is  built  in  terraces,  and  forms 
an  amphitheatre  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  and 
the  corner  dedicated  to  the  soldiers  is  high 
up,  visible  to  all  the  neighbourhood.  There 
are  fifteen  of  these  graves,  each  with  its 
four  flags,  making  sixty  flags  in  all.  And 
in  the  bitter  autumn  wind  they  flutter 


WAR  207 

almost  gaily,  unceasingly,  all  these  strips 
of  bunting,  they  wanton  in  the  air,  inter- 
mingle, and  their  bright  colours  shine  out 
more  conspicuously.  For  the  matter  of 
that,  no  three  other  colours  in  combination 
set  off  one  another  so  gaily  as  our  three 
dear  colours  of  France. 

And  these  tombs,  moreover,  have  such 
quantities  and  quantities  of  flowers, 
dahlias,  chrysanthemums  and  roses,  that 
they  seem  to  be  covered  with  one  and  the 
same  richly  decorated  carpet.  During 
these  days  of  festival,  the  rest  of  the  ceme- 
tery is  also  very  full  of  flowers,  but  it 
looks  dull  and  colourless  compared  with 
that  corner  sacred  to  our  soldiers.  It  is 
this  favoured  corner  which  is  visible  at 
first  sight,  from  a  distance,  from  all  the 
roads  leading  to  the  village,  and  wayfarers 
would  ask  themselves : 

**What  festival  can  they  be  celebrating 
with  all  those  flags  fluttering  in  the  air?*' 


208  WAE 

Two  days  before,  I  remember  coming 
to  see  the  preparations  for  these  ingenious 
decorations.  Chasseurs,  with  their  hands 
full  of  bunches  of  flowers,  were  working 
there  rapidly  and  thoughtfully,  speaking 
in  low  tones.  In  the  distance  could  be 
heard,  though  much  muffled,  the  orchestra 
of  the  incessant  battle  in  which  the  mag- 
nificent, great  voice  of  our  heavy  artillery 
predominated ;  it  seemed  like  the  mutter- 
ing of  a  storm  all  along  the  distant  horizon. 
It  was  very  gloomy  in  that  cemetery,  under 
an  overcast  sky,  whence  fell  a  semi-dark- 
ness already  wintry  in  aspect.  But  the 
zeal  of  these  chasseurs,  who  were  decking 
the  tombs  so  well,  must  yet  have  solaced 
the  souls  of  the  youthful  dead  with  a  little 
tender  gaiety. 

And  what  beautiful,  moving  Masses 
were  sung  for  them  all  along  the  front  on 
the  day  of  their  festival.  All  the  little 
churches — those  at  least  that  the  barbar- 


WAR  209 

ians  have  not  destroyed — had  been  deco- 
rated that  day  with  all  that  the  villages 
could  muster  in  the  way  of  flags,  banners, 
tapers  and  wreaths.  And  they  were  too 
small,  these  churches,  to  hold  the  crowds 
that  flocked  to  them.  There  were  officers, 
soldiers,  civil  population,  women  mostly 
in  mourning,  whose  eyes  under  their  veils 
were  reddened  with  secret  tears.  Some  of 
the  soldiers,  of  their  own  accord,  desiring 
to  honour  the  souls  of  their  comrades  with 
a  very  special  concert,  had  taken  pains  to 
learn  the  Judgment  hymns,  the  Dies  irce, 
the  De  profundis,  and  their  voices,  unskil- 
fully led  though  they  were,  vibrated  im- 
pressively in  the  unison  of  plain-song, 
which  the  organ  accompanied.  Indeed 
what  could  better  prepare  them  for  the 
supreme  sacrifice  and  for  a  death  nobly 
met  than  these  prayers,  this  music  and 
even  these  flowers  ? 

They  sang  this  morning,  these  impro- 

14 


210  WAR 

vised  choristers,  with  a  solemn  transport. 
Then  after  Mass,  in  spite  of  the  icy  rain 
and  the  muddy  roads,  the  crowds  that 
issued  from  each  church  in  procession  be- 
took themselves  to  the  cemeteries,  in  at- 
tendance on  the  priests  bearing  the  solemn 
crucifix.  And  again,  as  on  the  day  of  the 
funerals,  all  the  little  graves  were  blessed. 
If  I  record  these  scenes,  it  is  for  the 
sake  of  mothers  and  wives  and  families, 
living  far  from  here  in  other  provinces 
of  France,  whose  hearts  no  doubt  grow 
heavier  at  the  thought  that  the  grave  of 
someone  dear  to  them  may  be  neglected 
and  very  soon  become  unrecognisable. 
Oh  let  them  take  comfort !  In  spite  of  the 
simplicity  of  these  little  wooden  crosses, 
almost  all  alike,  nowhere  are  they  cared 
for  and  honoured  so  well  as  at  the  front ; 
in  no  other  place  could  they  receive  such 
touching  homage,  such  tribute  of  flowers, 
of  prayers,  of  tears. 


XXI 

THE  CROSS  OF  HONOUR  FOR  THE 
FLAG  OF  THE  NAVAL  BRIGADE ! 

Paris,  which  is  above  all  other  towns 
famous  for  its  noble  impulses,  was  feting 
some  days  ago  our  Naval  Brigade  from 
the  Yser — or  rather  the  last  survivors  of 
the  heroic  Brigade,  the  few  who  had  been 
able  to  return.  It  was  well  done  thus  to 
make  much  of  them,  but  alas !  how  soon  it 
will  all  be  forgotten. 

To-day,  in  honour  of  the  Brigade,  of 
which  three-quarters  were  annihilated,  our 
well-beloved  and  eminent  Minister  of 
Marine,  Admiral  Lacaze,  has  given  in- 
structions that  the  glorious  Order  of  the 
Day,  in  which  the  commander-in-chief 
bade  them  farewell,  should  be  posted  up 
on  all  our  ships  of  war.  It  ends  with  these 
words ; 

211 


212  WAR 

^^The  valiant  conduct  of  the  Naval 
Brigade  on  the  plains  of  the  Yser,  at  Nieu- 
port,  and  at  Dixmude  will  always  be  to 
th^  Forces  an  example  of  warlike  zeal  and 
devotion  to  their  country.  The  Naval 
Brigade  and  their  officers  may  well  be 
proud  of  this  new  and  glorious  page  which 
they  have  inscribed  on  their  records. '^ 

Indeed  this  Order  posted  up  on  board 
the  ships  will  be  more  permanent  than  the 
welcome  that  Paris  gave  them;  but  alas! 
this  likewise  will  be  forgotten,  too  soon 
forgotten. 

As  it  was  decided  when  this  Brigade  of 
picked  men  were  disbanded  to  preserve 
their  flag  for  the  Army  so  that  their  mem- 
ory might  be  perpetuated,  could  not  the 
Cross  of  Honour  be  attached  to  a  flag  of 
such  distinction  ?  This  idea,  it  seems,  has 
been  entertained,  but  perhaps — I  know 
nothing  of  the  matter — there  is  some  im- 
peding clause  in  the  regulations,  for  I 
seem  to  remember  to  have  read  there  that 


WAR  213 

before  it  can  be  decorated  with  the  Cross 
a  flag  must  have  been  unfurled  on  the  occa- 
sion of  a  great  offensive  or  a  splendid  feat 
of  arms.  Now  the  case  of  our  Naval 
Brigade  is  so  unprecedented  that  no  regu- 
lations could  have  made  provision  for  it. 
How  could  they  have  unfurled  their  flag 
in  that  unparalleled  conflict  since  in  those 
days  they  still  had  none*?  This  Brigade, 
hastily  organised  on  the  spur  of  the  mo- 
ment, was  thrown  into  the  firing-line  with- 
out that  incomparable  symbol,  the  tricol- 
our, which  all  the  other  brigades  possessed 
before  they  set  out.  It  was  not  until  later, 
long  after  the  great  exploits  with  which 
they  won  their  spurs,  that  their  flag  was 
presented  to  them,  at  a  time  when  they  had 
a  somewhat  less  terrible  part  to  play.  In 
such  circumstances  I  venture  to  hope  that 
the  regulation  may  be  relaxed  in  their 
favour.  If  this  flag  of  theirs  were  deco- 
rated, all  the  sailors  who  received  it  with 
such  joy  over  there,  that  day  when  all  its 


214  WAR 

three  colours  were  still  new  and  brilliant, 
would  feel  themselves  distinguished  at  the 
same  time  as  the  flag  itself,  and  later,  in 
future  days,  when  their  descendants  came 
to  look  at  it,  poor,  sacred,  tattered  rem- 
nant, tarnished  and  dusty,  this  Cross, 
which  had  been  awarded,  would  speak  to 
them  more  eloquently  of  sublime  deeds 
done  on  the  Belgian  Front. 

They  can  never  be  too  highly  honoured, 
the  Naval  Brigade,  of  whom  it  has  been 
officially  recorded : 

*'No  troops  in  any  age  have  ever  done 
what  these  have  done." 

And  here  is  an  extract  from  a  letter 
which,  on  the  day  when  they  were  dis- 
banded, after  reviewing  them  for  the  last 
time,  General  Hely  d'Oissel  wrote  to  the 
captain  of  the  Paillet,  who  was  then  com- 
manding the  Brigade,  a  letter  which  was 
read  to  all  the  sailors,  drawn  up  in  line, 
and  which  brought  tears  to  their  honest 
eyes: 


WAE  215 

**I  should  be  happy  to  preserve  the 
Brigade  State  (the  terrible  roll  of  dead, 
officers,  non-commissioned  officers,  and 
men)  as  an  eloquent  witness  of  the  im- 
mense services  rendered  to  the  country  by 
this  admirable  Brigade,  which  the  land 
forces  are  proud  to  have  had  in  their  ranks, 
and  which  I,  personally,  am  proud  to  have 
had  under  my  command  during  more  than 
a  year  of  the  war. 

''This  morning  when  I  saw  your  mag- 
nificent sailors  filing  past  with  such  cheer- 
fulness and  precision,  I  could  not  but  feel 
a  poignant  emotion  when  I  reflected  that 
it  was  for  the  last  time." 

Indeed  it  was  just  there,  in  the  blood- 
drenched  marshes  of  the  Yser,  that  for  the 
second  time,  and  finally,  the  onrush  of  the 
barbarians  was  broken.  The  two  great 
decisive  reverses  suffered  by  that  wretched 
Emperor  of  the  blood-stained  hands  were, 
everyone   knows,    the   retreat   from  the 


216  WAR 

Marne  and  then  that  check  in  Belgium, 
in  the  face  of  a  very  small  handful  of 
sailors  of  superhuman  tenacity. 

They  were  not  specially  selected,  these 
men  sublimely  stubborn ;  no,  they  were  the 
first  to  hand,  chosen  hastily  from  among 
the  men  in  our  ports.  They  had  not  even 
gone  away  to  fight,  but  quietly  to  police 
the  streets  of  Paris,  and  from  Paris,  one 
fine  day,  in  the  extremity  of  our  peril, 
they  were  dispatched  to  the  Yser,  without 
preparation,  inadequately  equipped,  with 
barely  sufficient  food,  and  told  simply: 

*'Let  yourselves  be  killed,  but  do  not 
suffer  the  German  beast  to  pass!  At  all 
costs  resist  for  at  least  a  week,  to  give  us 
time  to  come  to  the  rescue." 

Now  they  held  out,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, indefinitely,  in  the  midst  of  a  veri- 
table inferno  of  fire,  shrapnel,  clamour, 
crumbling  ruins,  cold,  rain,  engulfing  mud, 
and  ever  since  that  day  when  they  brought 
to  a  standstill  the  onrush  of  the  beast, 


WAR  217 

France  felt  that  she  was  saved  indeed. 

Indeed,  as  a  general  rule,  it  is  sufficient 
to  take  any  honest  fellows  whatsoever,  and 
merely  by  putting  a  blue  collar  on  them, 
you  transform  them  into  heroes.  In  the 
Chinese  expedition,  among  other  instances, 
I  have  seen  at  close  quarters  the  very  same 
thing :  a  small  handful  of  men,  taken  hap- 
hazard from  one  of  our  ships,  commanded 
by  very  young  officers  who  had  only  just 
attained  their  first  band  of  gold  braid, 
and  this  assembly  of  men,  hastily  mus- 
tered, suddenly  became  a  force  complete 
in  itself,  admirable,  united,  disciplined, 
zealous,  fearless,  capable  of  performing 
within  a  couple  of  days  prodigies  of  en- 
durance and  daring. 

Oh  that  Brigade  of  the  Tser,  whose 
destiny  I  just  missed  sharing!  I  had 
plotted  desperately,  I  admit,  for  the  sake 
of  being  attached  to  it,  and  I  was  about 
to  gain  my  end  when  an  obstacle  arose 
which  I  could  never  have  foreseen  and 


218  WAR 

which  excluded  me  inexorably.  To  have 
to  renounce  this  dream  when  it  was  almost 
within  my  grasp  will  be  for  me  unto  my 
life's  end  a  subject  of  burning  and  tor- 
menting regret.  But  at  least  let  me  com- 
fort myself  a  little  by  paying  my  tribute 
of  admiration  to  those  who  were  there. 
Let  me  at  least  have  this  little  pleasure 
of  working  to  glorify  their  memory. 
Therefore  I  herewith  beg  on  their  behalf 
— not  only  in  my  own  name,  for  several 
of  my  comrades  in  the  Navy  associate 
themselves  in  my  prayer,  comrades  who 
were  likewise  not  among  them,  the  disin- 
terested nature  of  whose  motives  cannot 
consequently  be  questioned — I  beg  here- 
with on  their  behalf  almost  confidently, 
although  the  regulation  may  prove  me  in 
the  wrong,  that  it  may  be  accorded  to  them, 
the  distinction  they  have  earned  ten  times 
over,  at  which  no  one  can  take  umbrage, 
and  that  a  scrap  of  red  ribbon  be  fastened 
to  their  flag. 


XXII 
THE  ABSENT-MINDED  PILGRIM 

December,  1915. 

That  day,  during  a  lull  in  the  fighting, 
the  General  gave  me  permission  to  take 
a  motor  car  for  three  or  four  hours  to  go 
and  look  for  the  grave  of  one  of  my 
nephews,  who  was  struck  down  by  a  shell 
during  our  offensive  in  September. 

From  imperfect  information  I  gathered 
that  he  must  be  lying  in  a  humble  emer- 
gency cemetery,  improvised  the  day  after 
a  battle,  some  five  or  six  hundred  yards 

away  from  the  little  town  of  T whose 

ruins,  still  bombarded  daily  and  becoming 
more  and  more  shapeless,  lie  on  the  ex- 
treme border  of  the  French  zone,  quite 
close  to  the  German  trenches.  But  I  did 
not  know  how  he  had  been  buried,  whether 
in  a  common  grave,  or  beneath  a  little 

219 


220  WAR 

cross  inscribed  with  his  name,  which  would 
make  it  possible  to  return  later  and  re- 
move the  body. 

''To  get  to  T ,"  the  General  had 

said,  "make  a  detour  by  the  village  of 

B ,  that  is  the  way  by  which  you  will 

run  the  least  risk  of  being  shelled.    At 

B ,  if  the  circumstances  of  the  day 

seemed  dangerous,  a  sentinel  would  stop 
you  as  usual;  then  you  would  hide  your 
motor  behind  a  wall,  and  you  could  con- 
tinue your  journey  on  foot — with  the  usual 
precautions,  you  will  understand." 

Osman,  my  faithful  servant,  who  has 
shared  my  adventures  in  many  lands  for 
twenty  years,  and  who,  like  everyone  else, 
is  a  soldier,  a  territorial,  had  a  cousin 
killed  in  the  same  fight  as  my  nephew,  and 
he  is  buried,  so  he  was  told,  in  the  same 
cemetery.  So  he  has  obtained  permission 
to  accompany  me  on  my  pious  quest. 

To-day  all  that  gloomy  countryside  is 


WAR  221 

powdered  with  hoar-frost  and  over  it 
hangs  an  icy  mist ;  nothing  can  be  distin- 
guished sixty  yards  ahead,  and  the  trees 
which  border  the  roads  fade  away,  envel- 
oped in  great  white  shrouds. 

After  driving  for  half  an  hour  we  are 
right  in  the  thick  of  that  inferno  of  the 
battle  front,  which,  from  habit,  we  no 
longer  notice,  though  it  was  at  first  so  im- 
pressive and  will  later  on  be  so  strange  to 
remember.  All  is  chaos,  hurly-burly;  all 
is  overthrown,  shattered;  walls  are  cal- 
cined, houses  eviscerated,  villages  in  ruins 
on  the  ground ;  but  life,  intense  and  mag- 
nificent, informs  both  roads  and  ruins. 
There  are  no  longer  any  civilians,  no 
women  or  children;  nothing  but  soldiers, 
horses,  and  motor  cars ;  of  these,  however, 
there  are  such  numbers  that  progress  is 
difficult.  Two  streams  of  traffic,  almost  un- 
interrupted, divide  the  roads  between 
them ;  on  one  side  is  everything  that  is  on 


222  WAR 

its  way  to  the  firing-line ;  on  the  other  side 
everything  that  is  on  its  way  back.  Great 
lorries  bringing  up  artillery,  munitions, 
rations,  and  Red  Cross  supplies  jolt  along 
on  the  frozen  cart  ruts  with  a  great  din 
of  clanging  iron,  rivalling  the  noise,  more 
or  less  distant,  of  the  incessant  cannonade. 
And  the  faces  of  all  these  different  men, 
who  are  driving  along  on  these  enormous 
rolling  machines,  express  health  and  reso- 
lution. There  are  our  own  soldiers,  now 
wearing  those  bluish  helmets  of  steel,  which 
recall  the  ancient  casque  and  bring  us  back 
to  the  old  times ;  there  are  yellow-bearded 
Russians,  Indians,  and  Bedouins  with 
swarthy  complexions.  All  these  crowds 
are  continuously  travelling  to  and  fro 
along  the  road,  dragging  all  sorts  of 
curious  things  heaped  up  in  piles.  There 
are  also  thousands  of  horses,  picking  their 
way  among  the  huge  wheels  of  innumer- 
able vehicles.    Indeed  it  might  be  thought 


WAR  223 

that  this  was  a  general  migration  of  man- 
kind after  some  cataclysm  had  subverted 
the  surface  of  the  earth.  Not  so !  This  is 
simply  the  work  of  the  great  Accursed, 
who  has  unloosed  German  barbarism.  He 
took  forty  years  to  prepare  the  monstrous 
cotip,  which,  according  to  his  reckoning, 
was  to  establish  the  apotheosis  of  his  in- 
sane pride,  but  which  will  result  in  noth- 
ing but  his  downfall,  in  a  sea  of  blood,  in 
the  midst  of  the  detestation  of  the  world. 

There  is  certainly  a  remarkable  lull  here 
to-day,  for  even  when  the  rolling  of  the 
iron  lorries  ceases  for  a  moment,  the 
rumbling  of  the  cannon  does  not  make  it- 
self heard.  The  cause  of  this  must  be  the 
fog  and  in  other  respects,  too,  how  greatly 
it  is  to  our  advantage,  this  kindly  mist ;  it 
seems  as  if  we  had  ordered  it. 

Here  we  are  at  the  village  of  B , 

which,  the  General  had  expected,  would 
be  the  terminus  of  our  journey  by  car. 


224  WAR 

Here  the  throng  is  chiefly  concentrated 
among  shattered  walls  and  burnt  roofs; 
helmets  and  overcoats  of  "horizon"  blue 
are  crowding  and  bustling  about.  And 
every  place  is  blocked  with  these  heavy 
wagons,  which,  as  soon  as  they  arrive, 
come  to  a  halt,  or  take  up  a  convenient 
position  for  starting  on  the  return  jour- 
ney. For  here  we  have  reached  the  border 
of  that  region  where,  as  a  rule,  men  can 
only  venture  by  night,  on  foot,  with  muffled 
tread;  or  if  by  day,  one  by  one,  so  that 
they  may  not  be  observed  by  German  field- 
glasses.  At  the  end  of  the  village,  then, 
signs  of  life  cease  abruptly,  as  if  cut  off 
clean  with  the  stroke  of  an  axe.  Suddenly 
there  are  no  more  people.    The  road,  it  is 

true,  leads  to  that  town  of  T ,  which 

is  our  destination;  but  all  at  once  it  is 
quite  empty  and  silent.  Bordered  by  its 
two  rows  of  skeleton  trees,  white  with 
frost,  it  plunges  into  the  dense  white  fog 


WAR  225 

with  an  air  of  mystery,  and  it  would  not 
be  surprising  to  read  here,  on  some  sign- 
post, '^Eoad  to  Death." 

We  hesitate  for  a  moment.  I  do  not, 
however,  see  any  of  the  signals  which  are 
customary  at  places  where  a  halt  must  be 
made,  nor  the  usual  little  red  flag,  nor  the 
warning  sentry,  holding  his  rifle  above  his 
head  with  both  hands.  So  the  road  is  con- 
sidered practicable  to-day,  and  when  I  ask 

if  indeed  it  leads  to  T ,  some  sergeants 

who  are  there  salute  and  confine  their 
answer  to  the  word  *'Yes,  sir,"  without 
showing  any  surprise.  So  all  that  we  have 
to  do  is  to  continue,  taking,  nevertheless, 
the  precaution  of  not  driving  too  fast,  so 
as  not  to  make  too  much  noise. 

And  it  is  merely  by  this  stillness  into 
which  we  are  now  plunging,  by  this  soli- 
tude alone,  that  I  am  aware  that  we  are 
right  in  the  very  front ;  for  it  is  one  of  the 
strange  characteristics  of  modern  warfare 

16 


226  WAR 

that  the  tragic  zone  bordering  on  the  bur- 
rows of  the  barbarians,  is  like  a  desert. 
Not  a  soul  is  visible;  everything  here  is 
hidden,  buried,  and — except  on  days  when 
Death  begins  to  roar  with  loud  and  ter- 
rible voice — most  frequently  there  is  noth- 
ing to  be  heard. 

We  go  on  and  on  in  a  scenery  of  dismal 
monotony,  continually  repeating  itself,  all 
misty  and  unsubstantial  in  appearance  as 
if  made  of  muslin.  Fifty  yards  behind  us 
it  is  effaced  and  shut  away;  fifty  yards 
ahead  of  us  it  opens  out,  keeping  its  dis- 
tance from  us,  but  without  varying  its 
aspect.  The  whitish  plain  with  its  frozen 
cart  ruts  remains  ever  the  same;  it  is 
blurred  and  does  not  reveal  its  distances ; 
there  is  ever  the  same  dense  atmosphere, 
resembling  cold  white  cotton  wool,  which 
has  taken  the  place  of  air,  and  ever  the 
two  rows  of  trees  powdered  with  rime, 
looking  like  big  brooms  which  have  been 


WAR  227 

rolled  in  salt  and  thrust  into  the  ground 
by  their  handles.  It  is  clear  indeed  that 
this  region  is  too  often  ravaged  by  light- 
ning, or  something  equivalent.  Oh,  how 
many  trees  there  are  shattered,  twisted, 
with  splintered  branches  hanging  in 
shreds ! 

We  cross  French  trenches  running  to 
the  right  and  left  of  the  road,  facing  the 
xmknown  regions  towards  which  we  are 
hastening ;  they  are  ready,  several  lines  of 
them,  to  meet  the  improbable  contingency 
of  a  retreat  of  our  troops;  but  they  are 
empt}^  and  are  merely  a  continuation  of 
the  same  desert.  I  call  a  halt  from  time  to 
time  to  look  around  and  listen  with  ears 
pricked.  There  is  no  sound ;  everything  is 
as  still  as  if  Nature  herself  had  died  of  all 
this  cold.  The  fog  is  growing  thicker  still, 
and  there  are  no  field-glasses  capable  of 
penetrating  it.  At  the  very  most  they 
might  hear  us  arrive,  the  enemy,  over  there 


228  WAR 

and  beyond.  According  to  my  maps  we 
have  still  another  two  miles  at  least  before 
us.    Onwards ! 

But  suddenly  there  appears  to  have  been 
an  evocation  of  ghosts;  heads,  rows  of 
heads,  wearing  blue  helmets,  rise  together 
from  the  ground,  right  and  left,  near  and 
far.  Upon  my  soul!  they  are  our  own 
soldiers  to  be  sure,  and  they  content  them- 
selves with  looking  at  us,  scarcely  showing 
themselves.  But  for  these  trenches,  which 
we  are  passing  so  rapidly,  to  be  so  full 
of  soldiers  on  the  alert,  we  must  be  re- 
markably close  to  the  Ogre's  den.  Never- 
theless let  us  go  a  little  farther,  as  the 
kindly  mist  stays  with  us  like  an 
accomplice. 

Five  hundred  yards  farther  on  I  remem- 
ber the  enemy's  microphones,  which  alone 
could  betray  us;  and  it  so  happens  that 
the  frozen  earth  and  the  mist  are  two 
wonderful  conductors  of  sound.    Then  it 


WAR  229 

suddenly  occurs  to  me  that  I  have  gone 
much  too  far,  that  I  am  surrounded  by 
death,  that  it  is  only  the  fog  which  shel- 
ters us,  and  the  thought  that  I  am  respon- 
sible for  the  lives  of  my  soldiers  makes 
me  shudder.  It  is  because  I  am  not  on 
duty ;  my  expedition  to-day  is  of  my  own 
choosing,  and  in  these  conditions,  if  any- 
thing happened  to  one  of  them,  I  should 
suffer  remorse  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  It 
is  high  time  to  leave  the  car  here !  Then  I 
shall  continue  my  journey  on  foot  towards 

the  town  of  T ,  to  find  out  from  our 

soldiers  who  are  installed  there  in  cellars 
of  ruined  houses,  whereabouts  the  ceme- 
tery lies  which  I  am  seeking. 

But  at  this  same  moment  a  densely 
crowded  cemetery  is  visible  in  a  field  to 
the  left  of  the  road;  there  are  crosses, 
crosses  of  white  wood,  ranged  close  to- 
gether in  rows,  as  numerous  as  vines  in 
the  vineyards  of   Champagne.    It  is  a 


230  WAR 

humble  cemetery  for  soldiers,  quite  new, 
yet  already  extensive,  powdered  with  rime 
too,  like  the  surrounding  plains,  and  in- 
finitely desolate  of  aspect  in  that  colour- 
less countryside,  which  has  not  even  a 
green  blade  of  grass.  Can  this  be  the  ceme- 
tery we  are  seeking? 

**Yes,  certainly  this  is  it,''  exclaims 
Osman,  "this  is  it,  for  here  is  my  poor 
cousin's  grave.  Look,  sir,  the  first,  close 
to  the  ditch  which  borders  the  cemetery. 
I  read  his  name  here. " 

Indeed,    I    read    it    myself,    "Pierre 

D ."    The  inscription  is  in  very  large 

letters,  and  the  cross  is  facing  in  our  direc- 
tion more  than  the  others,  as  if  it  would 
call  to  us : 

"Halt!  we  are  here.  Do  not  run  the 
risk  of  going  any  farther.    Stop!" 

And  we  stop,  listening  attentively  in 
the  silence.  There  is  no  somad,  no  move- 
ment anywhere,  except  the  fall  of  a  bead 


WAR  231 

of  frost,  slipping  off  the  gaunt  trees  by 
the  wayside.  We  seem  to  be  in  absolute 
security.  Let  us  then  calmly  enter  the 
field  where  this  humble  cross  seems  to  have 
beckoned  to  us. 

Osman  had  carefully  prepared  two  little 
sealed  bottles,  containing  the  names  of  our 
two  dead  friends,  which  he  intended  to 
bury  at  their  feet,  fearing  lest  shells  should 
still  be  capable  of  destroying  all  the  labels 
on  the  graves.  It  is  true  we  have  carelessly 
forgotten  to  bring  a  spade  to  dig  up  the 
earth,  but  it  cannot  be  helped,  we  shall 
do  it  as  best  we  may.  The  two  chauffeurs 
accompany  us,  for  knowing  the  reason  for 
our  expedition,  they  had,  with  kindly 
thoughtfulness,  each  brought  a  camera  to 
take  a  photograph  of  the  graves.    Pierre 

D had  been  discovered  at  once.   There 

remained  only  my  nephew  to  be  found 
among  these  many  frozen  graves  of  youth- 
ful dead.    In  order  to  gain  time — for  the 


232  WAR 

place  is  not  very  reassuring,  it  must  be 
confessed — let  us  divide  the  pious  task 
among  us,  and  each  of  us  follow  one  of 
these  rows,  ranged  with  such  military 
regularity. 

I  do  not  think  human  imagination  could 
ever  conceive  anything  so  dismal  as  this 
huge  military  cemetery  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  desolation,  this  silence  which  one 
knows  to  be  listening,  hostile  and  treacher- 
ous, in  this  horrible  neighbourhood  whose 
menace  seems,  as  it  were,  to  loom  over 
us.  Everything  is  white  or  whitish,  be- 
ginning with  the  soil  of  Champagne,  which 
would  always  be  pale  even  if  it  were  not 
powdered  with  innumerable  little  crystals 
of  ice.  There  is  no  shrub,  no  greenery,  not 
even  grass ;  nothing  but  the  pale,  cinder- 
grey  earth  in  which  our  soldiers  have  been 
buried.  Here  they  lie,  these  two  or  three 
hundreds  of  little  hillocks,  so  narrow  that 
it  seems  that  space  is  precious,  each  one 


WAR  233 

marked  with  its  poor  little  white  cross. 
Garlanded  with  frost,  the  arms  of  all  these 
crosses  seem  fringed  with  sad,  silent  tears 
which  have  frozen  there,  unable  to  fall, 
and  the  fog  envelops  the  whole  scene  so 
jealously  that  the  end  of  the  cemetery  can- 
not be  clearly  seen.  The  last  crosses,  hung 
with  white  drops,  are  lost  in  livid  indefi- 
niteness.  It  seems  as  if  this  field  alone 
were  left  in  the  world,  with  all  its  myriad 
pearls  gleaming  sadly,  and  naught  else. 

I  have  bent  down  over  a  hundred  graves 
at  least  and  I  find  nothing  but  unknown 
names,  often  even  that  cruel  phrase,  '^Not 
identified.''  I  say  that  I  have  bent  down, 
because  sometimes,  instead  of  being 
painted  in  black  letters,  the  inscription  was 
engraved  on  a  little  zinc  plate — ^nothing 
better  was  to  be  had — engraved  hastily  and 
difficult  to  decipher.  At  last  I  discover 
the  poor  boy  whom  I  was  seeking,  "Ser- 
gent  Georges  de  F."    There  he  is,  in  line 


234  WAR 

as  if  on  a  parade  ground,  between  his  com- 
panions, all  alike  silent.  A  little  plate  of 
zinc  has  fallen  to  his  lot,  and  his  name  has 
been  patiently  stippled,  doubtless  with  the 
help  of  a  hammer  and  a  nail.  His  is  one 
of  the  few  graves  decked  with  a  wreath,  a 
very  modest  wreath  to  be  sure,  of  leaves 
already  discoloured,  a  token  of  remem- 
brance from  his  men  who  must  have  loved 
him,  for  I  know  he  was  gentle  with  them. 
For  reference  later,  when  his  body  will 
be  removed,  I  am  now  going  to  draw  a  plan 
of  the  cemetery  in  my  notebook,  counting 
the  rows  of  graves  and  the  number  of 
graves  in  each  row.  Look!  bullets  are 
whistling  past  us,  two  or  three  in  succes- 
sion. Whence  can  they  be  coming  to  us, 
these  bullets?  They  are  undoubtedly  in- 
tended for  us,  for  the  noise  that  each  one 
makes  ends  in  that  kind  of  little  honeyed 
song,  "Cooee  you!  Cooee  you!"  which  is 
characteristic  of  them  when  they  expire 


WAR  235 

somewhere  in  your  direction,  somewhere 
quite  close.  After  their  flight  silence  pre- 
vails again,  but  I  make  more  haste  with 
my  drawing. 

And  the  longer  I  remain  here  the  more  I 
am  impressed  with  the  horror  of  the  place. 
Oh  this  cemetery  which,  instead  of  ending 
like  things  in  real  life,  plunges  little  by 
little  into  enfolding  mists;  these  tombs, 
these  tombs  all  decked  with  gem-like  icicles 
which  have  dropped  as  tears  drop;  the 
whiteness  of  the  soil,  the  whiteness  of 
everything,  and  Death  which  returns  and 
hovers  stealthily,  uttering  a  little  cry  like 
a  bird  I    Yonder,  by  the  grave  of  Pierre 

D ,  I  notice  Osman,  likewise  much 

blurred  in  the  fog.  He  has  found  a  spade, 
which  has  doubtless  remained  there  ever 
since  the  interments,  and  he  finishes  bury- 
ing the  little  bottle  which  is  to  serve  as  a 
token. 

Again  that  sound,  '^Cooee  you!    Cooee 


236  WAR 

you!"  The  place  is  decidedly  unhealtliy, 
as  the  soldiers  say.  I  should  be  to  blame 
if  I  lingered  here  any  longer. 

Upon  my  soul,  here  comes  shrapnel! 
But  before  I  heard  it  explode  in  the  air  I 
recognised  it  by  the  sound  of  its  flight, 
which  is  different  from  that  of  ordinary 
shells.  This  first  shot  is  aimed  too  far  to 
the  right,  and  the  fragments  fall  twenty  or 
thirty  yards  away  on  the  little  white  hil- 
locks. But  they  have  found  us  out,  so  much 
is  certain,  and  that  is  owing  to  the  micro- 
phones. This  will  continue,  and  there  is 
no  cover  anywhere,  not  a  single  trench, 
not  a  single  hole. 

** Stoop  down,  sir,  stoop  down,"  shouts 
Osman  from  the  distance,  seeing  another 
coming  towards  me  while  my  attention  is 
still  occupied  with  the  graves.  Why  should 
I  stoop  down?  It  is  a  useful  precaution 
against  shells.  But  against  shrapnel, 
which  strikes   downwards   from   above? 


WAR  237 

No,  we  ought  to  have  our  steel  hehnets, 
but  carelessly,  anticipating  no  danger,  we 
left  them  in  the  car  with  our  masks.  All 
that  is  left  for  us  is  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat. 
Osman  comes  running  towards  me  with 
his  spade  and  his  second  little  bottle,  and 
I  shout  at  him: 

''No,  no,  it  is  too  late,  you  must  run 
away." 

Good  heavens,  the  car  has  not  even  been 
turned !  Why,  that  was  an  elementary  pre- 
caution, and  as  soon  as  we  arrived  I  ought 
to  have  seen  to  that.  What  a  long,  black 
record  of  carelessness  to-day ;  where  is  my 
head  ?  It  is  because  our  entry  to  the  ceme- 
tery was  so  undisturbed.  I  call  out  to  the 
two  chauffeurs  who  were  still  taking 
photographs : 

''Stop  that,  stop!  Go  at  once  and  turn 
the  car !  Not  too  fast  though,  or  you  will 
make  too  much  noise,  but  hurry  up! 
Run!'' 


238  WAR 

Osman  took  advantage  of  this  diversion 
with  the  chauffeurs  to  begin  digging  in 
the  ground  near  me. 

"No,  I  tell  you,  stop  at  once.  Can  you 
not  see  that  they  are  still  shelling  us  I  Run 
and  get  behind  a  tree  by  the  roadside." 

"But  it  is  all  right,  sir,  it  is  just  finished. 
It  will  be  finished  by  the  time  the  car  has 
been  turned." 

In  my  heart  I  am  glad  that  he  is  dis- 
obejdng  me  a  little  and  completing  the 
work.  Never  was  a  hole  dug  so  rapidly 
nor  a  bottle  buried  so  nimbly.  Then  he 
puts  back  the  earth,  jumps  on  it  to  flatten 
it  down,  and  throws  down  his  sexton's 
spade.  Then  we  run  away  at  full  speed, 
stepping  on  the  hillocks  of  our  dead,  apolo- 
gising to  them  inwardly.  Nothing  seems 
so  ridiculous  and  stupid  as  to  run  under 
fire.  But  I  am  not  alone;  the  safety  of 
these  soldiers  is  in  my  charge,  and  I  should 
be  guilty  if  I  delayed  them  for  as  much  as 
a  second  in  their  flight. 


WAR  239 

Shrapnel  is  still  bursting,  scattering  its 
hail  around  us.  And  how  strange  and 
subtle  are  the  ways  of  modern  warfare, 
where  death  comes  thus  seeking  us  out 
of  invisible  depths,  depths  of  a  horizon 
that  looks  like  white  cotton  wool;  death 
launched  at  us  by  men  whom  we  can  see 
no  more  than  they  can  see  us,  laimched 
blindly,  yet  in  the  certainty  of  finding  us. 

We  reach  the  car  just  as  it  has  finished 
turning ;  we  jump  in,  and  off  our  car  goes 
at  full  speed,  all  open.  We  pass  the  occu- 
pied trenches  like  a  hurricane;  this  time 
heads  are  scarcely  raised  because  of  the 
shower  of  shrapnel.  These  men,  to  be 
sure,  are  under  cover,  but  not  so  we,  who 
have  nothing  but  our  speed  to  save  us. 

In  our  frantic  flight,  in  which  my  part 
is  simply  passive,  my  imagination  is  free 
to  return  to  that  gloomy  cemetery  and  its 
dead.  And  it  was  strange  how  clearly  we 
could  hear  the  shrapnel  in  the  midst  of  this 


240  WAR 

silence  and  in  this  extraordinary  mist, 
which  increased,  like  a  microphone,  the 
noise  of  its  flight.  It  is,  moreover,  per- 
haps the  first  time  that  I  have  heard  it 
performing  a  solo  apart  from  all  the  cus- 
tomary clamour,  in  intimacy,  if  I  may  say 
so,  for  it  has  done  me  the  honour  of  com- 
ing solely  on  my  account.  Never  before, 
then,  had  I  felt  that  almost  physical  ap- 
preciation of  the  mad  velocity  of  these 
little  hard  bodies,  and  of  the  shock  with 
which  they  must  strike  against  some  frag- 
ile object,  say  a  chest  or  a  head. 

The  game  is  over,  and  we  are  entering 

again  the  village  of  B .    Here,  out  of 

range  of  shrapnel,  only  long-distance  guns 
could  reach  us.  We  have  not  even  a  broken 
pane  of  glass  or  a  scratch.  Instinctively 
the  chauffeurs  draw  up,  just  as  I  was  about 
to  give  the  order,  not  because  the  car  is 
out  of  breath,  or  we  either,  but  we  need  a 
moment   to    regain    our    composure,    to 


WAR  241 

arrange  the  overcoats  thrown  into  the  car 
in  a  confused  heap,  which,  after  our  hur- 
ried departure,  danced  a  saraband  with 
cameras,  hehnets,  and  revolvers. 

And  then,  like  people  who  at  last  suc- 
ceed in  finding  a  shelter  from  a  shower 
in  a  gateway,  we  look  at  one  another  and 
feel  inclined  to  laugh — to  laugh  in  spite  of 
the  painfid  and  still  recent  memory  of  our 
dead,  to  laugh  at  having  made  good  our 
escape,  to  laugh  because  we  have  succeeded 
in  doing  what  we  set  out  to  do,  and  espe- 
cially because  we  have  defied  those  im- 
beciles who  were  firing  at  us. 


16 


XXIII 
THE  FIRST  SUNSHINE  OF  MARCH 

March  10th,  1916. 
It  is  just  here,  I  believe,  that  that  zone, 
some  fifteen  to  twenty  miles  in  breadth,  so 
terribly  torn  and  rent,  which  stretches 
through  our  land  of  France  from  the 
North  Sea  to  Alsace,  following  the  line  of 
those  trenches,  where  the  barbarians  have 
dug  themselves  in,  it  is  just  here,  I  be- 
lieve, that  that  zone,  where  suffering  and 
glory  reign  supreme,  attains  the  climax  of 
its  nightmare-like  illusiveness,  the  climax 
of  its  horror.  I  say  *'just  here"  because 
I  am  not  allowed  to  be  more  definite ;  just 
here,  however,  in  a  certain  province  which 
had  even  before  the  war  a  depressing 
nickname,  something  like  "the  desolate 
province,"  *'the  mean  province,"  or  even, 
if  you  like,  ''the  lousy  province."     The 

242 


\ 


WAR  243 

reason  was  that  even  before  it  was  laid 
waste  it  was  already  very  barren,  almost 
without  verdure;  it  had  nothing  to  show 
except  unfruitful  valleys,  some  clumps  of 
stunted  pines,  some  poverty-stricken  vil- 
lages, which  had  not  even  the  saving  grace 
of  antiquity,  for  century  by  century  sav- 
ages from  Germany  had  come  and  dis- 
ported themselves  there,  and  when  they 
went  away  everything  had  to  be  rebuilt. 

And  now  since  the  great  new  onrush, 
which  surpassed  all  abominations  ever  be- 
fore experienced,  how  strange,  fantastic 
almost,  seems  this  region  of  woe,  with  its 
calcined  ruins,  its  chalky  soil  dug  over  and 
again  dug  over  down  to  its  very  depths,  as 
if  by  myriads  of  burrowing  animals. 

Once  again  I  make  my  way  to-day  in  my 
motor  car  into  the  midst  of  it  all  on  some 
mission  assigned  to  me,  and  I  had  never 
yet  seen  it  in  all  the  mire  of  the  thaw,  in 
which  our  poor  little  warriors  in  blue  caps 


244  WAE 

are  so  uncomfortably  engulfed  up  to  mid- 
leg.  I  feel  my  heart  sinking  more  and  more 
the  farther  I  go  along  these  broken-up 
roads,  which  are  becoming  still  more 
crowded  with  our  dear  soldiers,  all  lament- 
ably coated  with  greyish  mud.  The  occa- 
sional villages  on  our  road  are  more  and 
more  damaged  by  shells,  and  peasant 
women  or  children  are  no  longer  to  be 
seen ;  there  are  no  more  civilians,  nothing 
but  blue  helmets,  but  of  these  there  are 
thousands.  The  rapid  melting  of  the  snow 
in  such  a  sudden  burst  of  sunshine  marks 
the  distant  landscape  with  zebra-like 
stripes,  white  and  earth-coloured.  And  all 
the  hills  which  we  pass  now  seem  to  be  in- 
habited by  tribes  of  troglodytes,  while 
every  slope  which  faces  us,  who  are  coming 
in  this  direction,  and  which,  owing  to  its 
position,  has  thus  escaped  the  notice  and 
the  fire  of  the  enemy,  is  riddled  with 
mouths  of  caves,  some  ranged  in  rows. 


WAR  245 

some  built  in  stories  one  above  the  other, 
and  from  these  peer  out  human  heads  in 
hehnets,  enjoying  the  sun.  What  can  this 
country  be?  Is  it  prehistoric,  or  merely 
very  remote?  Surely  no  one  would  say 
that  it  was  France.  Save  for  this  bitter, 
icy  wind,  this  country,  with  its  sky  almost 
too  blue  to-day  for  a  northern  sky,  might 
be  taken  for  the  banks  of  the  upper  Nile, 
the  Libyan  ridge  where  subterranean  cav- 
erns gape. 

Again  a  semblance  of  a  village  appears, 
the  last  through  which  I  shall  pass,  for 
those  which  are  distant  landmarks  on  the 
road  that  leads  towards  the  barbarians, 
are  nothing  more  now  than  hapless  heaps 
of  stone  resembling  barrows.  This  village, 
too,  be  it  understood,  is  three-quarters  in 
ruins;  there  remain  fragments  of  walls 
in  grotesque  shapes,  letting  in  the  daylight 
and  displaying  a  black  marbling  of  soot 
where  the  chimneys  used  to  be.   But  many 


246  WAR 

soldiers  are  gaily  having  their  breakfast 
in  the  purely  imaginary  shelter  afforded 
them  by  these  remains  of  houses.  There 
are  pay-sergeants  even,  who  are  seated  un- 
concernedly at  improvised  tables,  busy 
with  their  writing. 

Bang!  A  shell!  It  is  a  shell  hurled 
blindly  and  from  a  great  distance  by  the 
barbarians,  without  definite  purpose, 
merely  in  the  hope  that  it  may  succeed  in 
hurting  someone.  It  has  fallen  on  the 
ruins  of  a  roofless  stable,  where  some  poor 
horses  are  tethered,  and  here  are  two  of 
them  who  have  been  struck  down  and  are 
lying  bellies  upwards  and  kicking  out,  as 
they  do  when  they  are  dying;  they  stain 
the  snow  crimson  with  blood  spurting  from 
their  chests  in  jets,  as  if  forced  from  a 
pump. 

The  village  soon  disappears  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  I  enter  this  no  man's  land, 
always  rather  a  solemn   region,   which 


WAR  247 

from  end  to  end  along  the  front  indicates 
the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  the  bar- 
barians. The  March  smi,  astonishingly 
strong,  beats  down  upon  this  tragic  desert 
where  great  sheets  of  white  snow  alternate 
with  broad,  mud-coloured  surfaces.  And 
now  whenever  my  car  stops  and  pauses, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  and  the  engine  is 
silent,  the  noise  of  the  cannon  is  heard 
more  and  more  loudly. 

At  last  I  reach  the  farthest  point  to 
which  my  car  can  convey  me ;  if  I  took  it 
on  farther  it  would  be  seen  by  the  Boches, 
and  the  shells  that  are  roaming  about  here 
and  there  in  the  air  would  converge  upon 
it.  It  must  be  safely  bestowed,  together 
with  my  chauffeurs,  in  a  hollow  of  the  im- 
dulating  ground,  while  I  continue  my  jour- 
ney alone  on  foot. 

First  of  all  I  have  to  telephone  to  Gen- 
eral Headquarters.  The  telephone  office 
is  that  dark  hole  over  there,  hidden  among 


248  WAR 

scanty  bushes.  Climbing  down  a  very 
narrow  flight  of  steps,  I  penetrate  seven 
or  eight  yards  into  the  earth,  and  there  I 
find  four  soldiers  installed  as  telephone 
girls,  illumined  by  tiny  electric  lamps  that 
shine  like  glow-worms.  These  are  terri- 
torials, about  forty  years  of  age,  and  the 
man  who  hands  me  the  telephone  appara- 
tus wears  a  wedding  ring — doubtless  he 
has  a  wife  and  children  living  somewhere 
yonder  out  in  the  open  air,  where  life  is 
possible.  Nevertheless  he  tells  me  that  he 
has  been  six  months  in  this  damp  hole, 
beneath  the  surface  of  ground  which  is 
continually  swept  by  shells,  and  he  tells 
me  this  with  cheerful  resignation,  as  if  the 
sacrifice  were  quite  a  natural  thing.  In 
the  same  spirit  his  companions  speak  of 
their  white-ant  existence  without  a  shade 
of  complaint.  And  these,  too,  are  worthy 
of  admiration,  all  these  patient  heroes  of 
the  darkness,  equaUy  so,  perhaps,  with 


WAR  249 

their  comrades  who  fight  in  the  open  air 
in  the  light  of  day,  with  mutual  encourage- 
ment. 

Emerging  from  the  underground  cave, 
where  the  noises  are  muffled,  I  hear  very 
clearly  the  cannonade ;  my  eyes  are  dazzled 
by  the  unwonted  sunlight  which  illumines 
all  those  white  stretches  of  snow. 

I  have  to  journey  about  two  miles 
through  this  strange  desert  to  reach  a  pal- 
try little  clump  of  sorry-looking  pines 
which  I  perceive  over  there  on  some  rising 
ground.  It  is  there  that  I  have  made  an 
appointment  to  meet  an  officer  of  sappers, 
whom  my  business  concerns,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  fidfilling  my  mission. 

A  pretence  of  a  desert,  I  ought  rather  to 
call  it,  for  imderground  it  is  thickly  popu- 
lated by  our  soldiers,  armed  and  alert.  At 
the  first  signal  of  an  attack  they  would 
rush  out  through  a  thousand  apertures; 
but  for  the  moment,  throughout  the  whole 


250  WAR 

extent  of  this  tract,  so  sun-steeped  and 
yet  so  cold,  not  more  than  one  or  two  blue 
caps  are  visible,  belonging  to  men  who  are 
stealing  along  from  one  shelter  to 
another. 

And  it  is,  moreover,  a  terribly  noisy 
desert,  for  besides  the  continual  detona- 
tion of  artillery  from  varying  ranges, 
there  is  a  noise  like  huge  kinds  of  beetles 
flying,  which,  as  they  pass,  make  almost 
the  same  buzzing  sound  as  aeroplanes,  but 
they  all  fly  so  fast  as  to  be  invisible.  Their 
flight  is  haphazard,  and  when  they  strike 
their  heads  hard  against  the  ground 
pebbles,  earth,  scrap-iron,  spout  up  in  jets 
shaped  like  wheat-sheaves.  On  the  eastern 
horizon,  silhouetted  against  the  sky,  stands 
one  of  those  tumuli  of  ruins  which  now 
mark  the  place  of  former  villages ;  and  it  is 
here  especially  that  those  huge  beetles  are 
bent  on  falling,  raising  each  time  clouds  of 
plaster  and  dust.    It  is,  to  be  sure,  a  use- 


WAR  251 

less  and  idle  bombardment,  for  already  all 
this  has  perished. 

To-day  especially,  being  a  day  of  a  great 
thaw,  a  distance  of  two  miles  here  in  this 
region  where  so  many  of  our  poor  soldiers 
are  doomed  to  exist,  is  equal  to  a  distance 
of  at  least  ten  miles  elsewhere — it  is  such 
heavy  going.  You  sink  up  to  your  ankles 
in  mud,  and  you  cannot  draw  your  foot 
out,  for  the  mud  sticks  tight  like  glue.  The 
wind  still  remains  cold  and  icy,  but  in  the 
midst  of  a  sky  too  deeply  blue  shines  a  sun, 
beating  down  upon  my  head,  and  under 
the  steel  helmet,  which  grows  heavier  and 
heavier,  beads  of  sweat  stand  upon  my 
forehead.  The  snow  has  made  up  its  mind 
to  melt,  and  that  suddenly.  All  the  sima- 
mits  of  those  melancholy-looking  hills, 
bared  of  their  covering,  resume  again  their 
brown  colour  and  resemble  hindquarters 
of  animals  couching  on  these  plains  which 
still  remain  white. 


252  WAR 

This  is  the  first  time  that  I  find  myself 
absolutely,  infinitely  alone,  in  the  midst  of 
this  scene  of  intense  desolation,  which, 
though  to-day  it  happens  to  glitter  with 
light,  is  none  the  less  dismal.  Until  I  reach 
the  little  wood  whither  I  am  bound  on  duty 
there  is  nothing  to  think  about,  nothing 
with  which  I  need  concern  myself.  I  need 
not  trouble  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  shells, 
for  they  would  not  give  me  time,  nor  even 
to  select  places  where  to  put  my  feet,  since 
I  sink  in  equally  wherever  I  step.  And  so, 
gradually,  I  find  myself  relapsing  into  a 
state  of  mind  characteristic  of  former  days 
before  the  war,  and  I  look  at  all  these 
things  to  which  I  had  grown  accustomed 
and  view  them  impartially,  as  if  they  were 
new.  Twenty  short  months  ago,  who  would 
have  imagined  such  scenes  ?  For  instance, 
these  countless  spoil-heaps,  white  in  col- 
our, because  the  soil  of  this  province  is 
white,  spoil-heaps  which  are  thrown  up 


WAR  253 

everywhere  in  long  lines,  tracing  on  the 
desert  so  many  zebra-like  stripes;  is  it 
possible  that  these  indicate  the  only  tracks 
by  which  to-day  our  soldiers  of  France  can 
move  about  with  some  measure  of  safety? 
They  are  little  hollow  tracks,  some  undu- 
lating, some  straight,  communication 
trenches  which  the  French  nickname  *' in- 
testines." These  have  been  multiplied 
again  and  again,  until  the  groimd  is  fur- 
rowed with  them  unendingly.  What 
prodigious  work,  moreover,  they  repre- 
sent, these  mole-like  paths,  spreading  like 
a  network  over  hundreds  of  leagues.  If 
to  their  simi  be  added  trenches,  shelter 
caves,  and  all  those  catacombs  that  pene- 
trate right  into  the  heart  of  the  hills,  the 
mind  is  amazed  at  excavations  so  extensive, 
which  would  seem  the  work  of  centuries. 
And  these  strange  kinds  of  nets, 
stretched  out  in  all  directions,  would  any- 
one, unless  previously  warned  and  accus- 


254  WAR 

tomed  to  them,  understand  what  they 
were*?  They  look  as  if  gigantic  spiders 
had  woven  their  webs  around  countless 
numbers  of  posts,  which  stretch  out  beyond 
range  of  sight,  some  in  straight  lines,  some 
in  circles  or  crescents,  tracing  on  that  wide 
tract  of  country  designs  in  which  there 
must  surely  be  some  cabalistic  significance 
intended  to  envelop  and  entangle  the  bar- 
barians more  effectively.  Since  I  last 
came  this  way  these  obstructing  nets  must 
have  been  reinforced  to  a  terrible  extent, 
and  their  number  has  been  multiplied  by 
two,  by  ten.  In  order  to  achieve  such  in- 
extricable confusion  our  soldiers,  those 
weavers  of  snares,  must  have  made  in  them 
turnings  and  twists  with  their  great  bob- 
bins of  barbed  wire  carried  under  their 
arms.  But  here,  at  various  points,  are  en- 
closures, whose  purpose  is  obvious  at  a 
glance  and  which  add  to  the  grisly  horror 
of  the  whole  scene;  these  fences  of  wood 


WAR  255 

surround  closely  packed  groups  of  humble 
little  wooden  crosses  made  of  two  sticks. 
Alas !  what  they  are  is  clear  at  first  sight. 
Thus,  then,  they  lie,  within  sound  of  the 
cannonade,  as  if  the  battle  were  not  yet 
over  for  them,  these  dear  comrades  of 
ours  who  have  vanished,  heroes  humble 
yet  sublime — inapproachable  for  the  pres- 
ent, even  for  those  who  weep  for  them, 
inapproachable,  because  death  never 
ceases  to  fly  through  the  air  which  stirs 
overhead,  above  their  little  silent  gather- 
ings. 

Ah  I  to  complete  the  impression  of  un- 
reality a  black  bird  appears  of  fabulous 
size,  a  monster  of  the  Apocalypse,  flying 
with  great  clamour  aloft  in  the  air.  He  is 
moving  in  the  direction  of  France,  seek- 
ing, no  doubt,  some  more  sheltered  region, 
where  at  last  women  and  children  are  to 
be  found,  in  the  hope  of  destroying  some 
of  them.    I  keep  on  walking,  if  walking 


256  WAR 

it  can  be  called,  this  wearisome,  pitiless 
repetition  of  plunges  into  snow  and  ice- 
cold  mud.  At  last  I  reach  the  clump  of 
trees  where  we  have  arranged  to  meet. 
I  am  thankful  to  have  arrived  there,  for 
my  helmet  and  cap  were  encumbrances 
under  that  unexpectedly  hot  sun.  I  am, 
however,  before  my  time.  The  officer 
whom  I  invited  to  meet  me  here — in  order 
to  discuss  questions  concerning  new  works 
of  defence,  new  networks  of  lines,  new  pits 
— that  is  he,  no  doubt,  that  blue  silhouette 
coming  this  way  across  the  snow-shrouded 
ground.  But  he  is  far  away,  and  for  a 
few  more  moments  I  can  still  indulge  in 
the  reverie  with  which  I  whiled  away  the 
journey,  before  the  time  comes  when  I 
must  once  more  become  precise  and  busi- 
nesslike. Evidently  the  place  is  not  one 
of  perfect  peace,  for  it  is  clear  that  these 
melancholy  boughs,  half  stripped  of  leaves 
already,  have  suffered  from  those  great 


WAR  257 

limnming  cockchafers  that  fly  across  from 
time  to  time,  and  have  been  shot  through 
as  if  they  were  no  stronger  than  sheets  of 
paper.  It  is,  to  be  sure,  but  a  small  wood, 
yet  it  keeps  me  company,  wrapping  me 
round  with  an  illusion  of  safety. 

I  am  standing  here  on  rising  ground, 
where  the  wind  blows  more  icily,  and  I 
command  a  view  of  the  whole  terrible  land- 
scape, a  succession  of  monotonous  hills, 
striped  in  zebra  fashion  with  whitish 
trenches;  its  few  trees  have  been  blasted 
by  shrapnel.  In  the  distance  that  network 
of  iron  wire,  stretching  out  in  all  direc- 
tions, shines  brightly  in  the  sun,  and  is 
not  unlike  the  gossamer  which  floats  over 
the  meadows  in  spring  time.  And  on  all 
sides  the  detonation  of  artillery  continues 
with  its  customary  clamour,  unceasing 
here,  day  and  night,  like  the  sea  beating 
against  the  cliffs. 

Ah !  the  big  black  bird  has  found  some- 

17 


258  WAR 

one  to  talk  to  in  the  air.  I  see  it  suddenly 
assailed  by  a  quantity  of  those  flakes  of 
white  cotton  wool  (bursts  of  shrapnel), 
in  appearance  so  innocent,  yet  so  danger- 
ous to  birds  of  his  feather.  So  he  hur- 
riedly turns  back,  and  his  crimes  are  post- 
poned to  another  day. 

From  behind  a  neighbouring  hill  issues 
a  squad  of  men  in  blue,  who  will  reach  me 
before  the  officer  on  the  road  yonder.  It 
is  one,  just  one,  of  a  thousand  of  those 
little  processions  which,  alas !  may  be  met 
with  every  hour  all  along  the  front,  form- 
ing, as  it  were,  part  of  the  scenery.  In 
front  march  four  soldiers  carrying  a 
stretcher,  and  others  follow  them  to  re- 
lieve them.  They,  too,  are  attracted  by 
the  delusive  hope  of  protection  afforded 
by  the  branches,  and  at  the  beginning  of 
the  wood  they  stop  instinctively  for  a 
breathing  space  and  to  change  shoulders. 
They  have  come  from  first  line  trenches  a 


WAR  259 

mile  or  two  away  and  are  carrying  a  seri- 
ously wounded  man  to  a  subterranean  field 
hospital,  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour's  walk  away.  They,  likewise,  had 
not  anticipated  the  heat  of  that  terrible 
March  sun,  which  is  beating  down  on  their 
heads ;  they  are  wearing  their  helmets  and 
winter  caps,  and  these  weigh  upon  them 
as  heavily  as  the  precious  burden  which 
they  are  so  careful  not  to  jolt.  In  addi- 
tion to  this  they  drag  along  on  each  leg  a 
thick  crust  of  snow  and  sticky  mud,  which 
makes  their  feet  as  heavy  as  elephants' 
feet,  and  the  sweat  pours  in  great  drops 
down  their  faces,  cheerful  in  spite  of 
fatigue. 

*' Where  is  your  man  wounded  I"  I  ask, 
in  a  low  voice. 

In  a  voice  still  lower  comes  the  reply: 
**His  stomach  is  ripped  open,  and  the 

Major  in  the  trench  said  that "  they 

finish  the  sentence  merely  by  shaking  their 


260  WAR 

heads,  but  I  have  understood.  Besides 
he  has  not  stirred.  His  poor  hand  remains 
lying  across  his  eyes  and  forehead,  doubt- 
less to  protect  them  from  the  burning  sun, 
and  I  ask  them : 

^'Why  have  you  not  covered  his  face?'* 

^' We  put  a  handkerchief  over  it,  sir,  but 
he  took  it  off.  He  said  he  preferred  to 
remain  like  this,  so  that  he  could  still  look 
at  things  hetween  his  fingers/' 

Ah !  the  last  two  men  have  blood  as  well 
as  sweat  pouring  over  their  faces  and 
trickling  in  a  little  stream  down  their 
necks. 

"It  is  nothing  much,  sir,"  they  say,  ''we 
got  that  as  soon  as  we  started.  We  began 
by  carrying  him  along  the  communication 
trenches,  but  that  jolted  him  too  much,  so 
then  we  walked  along  outside  in  the  open. ' ' 

Poor  fellows,  admirable  for  their  very 
carelessness.  To  save  their  wounded  man 
from  jolts  they  risked  their  own  lives. 


WAR  261 

Two  or  three  of  these  death-bringing 
cockchafers,  which  go  hununing  along  here 
at  all  hours,  came  down  and  were  crushed 
to  pieces  on  the  stones  close  to  them,  and 
wounded  them  with  their  shattered  frag- 
ments. The  Germans  disdain  to  fire  at  a 
single  wayfarer  like  myself,  but  a  group 
of  men,  and  a  stretcher  in  particular,  they 
cannot  resist.  One  of  these  men,  both  of 
whom  are  dripping  with  blood,  has  per- 
haps actually  received  only  a  scratch,  but 
the  other  has  lost  an  ear;  only  a  shred  is 
left,  hanging  by  a  thread. 

"You  must  go  at  once  and  have  your 
wound  dressed  at  the  hospital,  my  friend,^* 
I  say  to  him. 

"Yes,  sir.  And  we  are  just  on  our  way 
there,  to  the  hospital.    It  is  very  lucky.'' 

This  is  the  only  idea  of  complaint  that 
has  entered  his  head. 

"It  is  very  lucky." 

And  he  says  this  with  such  a  qmet,  pleas- 


262  WAR 

ant  smile,  grateful  to  me  for  taking  an 
interest  in  him. 

I  hesitated  before  going  to  look  more 
closely  at  their  seriously  wounded  man 
who  never  stirred,  for  I  feared  lest  I  should 
disturb  his  last  dream.  Nevertheless  I  ap- 
proach him  very  gently,  because  they  are 
just  going  to  carry  him  away. 

Alas !  he  is  almost  a  child,  a  child  from 
some  village;  so  much  is  clear  from  his 
bronzed  cheeks,  which  have  scarcely  yet 
begun  to  turn  pale.  The  sun,  even  as  he 
desired,  shines  full  upon  his  comely  face, 
the  face  of  a  boy  of  twenty,  with  a  frank 
and  energetic  expression,  and  his  hand  still 
shades  his  eyes,  which  have  a  fixed  look 
and  seem  to  have  done  with  sight.  Some 
morphia  had  to  be  given  him  to  spare  him 
at  least  unnecessary  suffering. 

Lowly  child  of  our  peasantry,  little 
ephemeral  being,  of  what  is  he  dreaming, 
if  indeed  he  still  dreams?    Perhaps  of  a 


WAR  263 

white-capped  mother  who  wept  tender 
tears  whenever  she  recognised  his  child- 
ish writing  on  an  envelope  from  the  front. 
Or  perhaps  he  is  dreaming  of  a  cottage 
garden,  the  delight  of  his  earliest  years, 
where,  he  reflects,  this  warm  March  sun 
will  call  to  life  new  shoots  all  along  some 
old  wall.  On  his  chest  I  see  the  handker- 
chief with  which  one  of  the  men  had  at- 
tempted to  cover  his  face ;  it  is  a  fine  hand- 
kerchief, embroidered  with  a  marquis's 
coronet — ^the  coronet  of  one  of  his  stretcher 
bearers.  He  had  desired  still  to  look  at 
things,  in  his  terror,  doubtless,  of  the  black 
night.  But  soon  he  will  suddenly  cease 
to  be  aware  of  this  same  sun,  which  now 
must  dazzle  him.  First  of  all  he  will  enter 
the  half-darkness  of  the  field  hospital,  and 
immediately  afterwards  there  will  descend 
upon  him  that  black  inexorable  night,  in 
which  no  March  sun  will  ever  rise  again. 
'*Go  on  at  once,  my  friends,"  I  say  to 


264  WAR 

them,  *Hhe  wind  blows  too  cold  here  for 
people  drenched  with  sweat  like  you.'* 

I  watch  them  move  away,  their  legs 
weighted  with  slabs  of  viscous  mud.  My 
admiration  and  my  compassion  go  with 
them  on  their  way  through  the  snow,  where 
they  plod  along  so  laboriously. 

These  men,  to  be  sure,  still  have  some 
privileges,  for  they  can  at  least  help  one 
another,  and  careful  hands  are  waiting  to 
dress  their  wounds  in  an  underground 
refuge,  which  is  almost  safe.  But  close 
to  this,  at  Verdun,  there  are  thousands  of 
others,  who  have  fallen  in  confused  heaps, 
smothering  one  another.  Underneath 
corpses  lie  dying  men,  whom  it  is  impos- 
sible to  rescue  from  those  vast  charnel- 
houses,  so  long  ago  and  so  scientifically 
prepared  by  the  Kaiser  for  the  greater 
glory  of  that  ferocious  young  nonentity 
whom  he  has  for  a  son. 


XXIV 

AT  SOISSONS 

September,  1915. 

Soissons  is  one  of  our  great  martyred 
towns  of  the  north ;  it  can  be  entered  only 
by  circuitous  and  secret  paths,  with  such 
precautions  as  Redskins  take  in  a  forest, 
for  the  barbarians  are  hidden  everywhere 
within  the  earth  and  on  the  hill  close  at 
hand,  and  with  field-glasses  at  their  wicked 
eyes  they  scan  the  roads,  so  that  they  may 
shower  shrapnel  on  any  rash  enough  to 
approach  that  way. 

One  delightful  September  evening  I  was 
guided  towards  this  town  by  some  officers 
accustomed  to  its  dangerous  surroundings. 
Taking  a  zigzag  course  over  low-lying 
ground,  through  deserted  gardens,  where 
the  last  roses  of  the  season  bloomed  and 
the  trees  were  laden  with  fruit,  we  reached 

265 


266  WAR 

without  accident  the  suburbs,  and  were 
soon  actually  in  the  streets  of  the  town. 
Grass  had  already  begun  to  sprout  there 
from  the  ruins  during  the  last  year  in 
which  all  signs  of  human  life  had  van- 
ished. From  time  to  time  we  met  some 
groups  of  soldiers,  otherwise  not  a  soul, 
and  a  death-like  silence  held  sway  under 
that  wonderful  late-summer  sky. 

Before  the  invasion  it  was  one  of  these 
towns,  fallen  a  little  into  neglect,  that  exist 
in  the  depths  of  our  provinces  of  France, 
with  modest  mansions  displaying  armorial 
bearings  and  standing  in  little  squares 
planted  with  elms;  and  life  there  must 
have  been  very  peaceful  in  the  midst  of 
somewhat  old-fashioned  ways  and  cus- 
toms. It  is  in  the  destruction  of  these  old 
hereditary  homes,  which  were  doubtless 
loved  and  venerated,  that  senseless  bar- 
barism daily  wreaks  its  vengeance.  Many 
of  these  buildings  have  collapsed,  scat- 


WAR  267 

tering  on  to  the  pavement  their  antiquated 
furniture,  and  in  their  present  immobility 
remain,  as  it  were,  in  postures  of  suffer- 
ing. This  evening  there  happens  to  be  a 
lull.  A  few  somewhat  distant  cannon  shots 
still  come  and  punctuate,  if  I  may  say 
so,  the  funereal  monotony  of  the  hours; 
but  this  intermittent  music  is  so  customary 
in  these  parts  that  though  it  is  heard  it 
attracts  no  notice.  Instead  of  disturbing 
the  silence,  it  seems  actually  to  emphasise 
it  and  at  the  same  time  to  deepen  its 
tragedy. 

Here  and  there,  on  walls  that  still  re- 
main undamaged,  little  placards  are 
posted,  printed  on  white  paper,  with  the 
notice:  "House  still  occupied."  Under- 
neath, written  by  hand,  are  the  names  of 
the  pertinacious  occupants,  and  somehow, 
I  cannot  say  why,  this  strikes  the  observer 
as  being  a  rather  futile  formality.  Is  it 
to  keep  away  robbers  or  to  warn  off  shells  ? 


268  WAR 

And  where  else,  in  what  scene  of  desola- 
tion similar  to  this,  have  I  noticed  before 
other  little  placards  such  as  these?  Ah, 
I  remember !  It  was  at  Pekin,  during  its 
occupation  by  European  troops,  in  that 
unliappy  quarter  which  fell  into  the  hands 
of  Germany,  where  the  Kaiser's  soldiers 
gave  rein  to  all  their  worst  instincts,  for 
they  may  be  judged  on  that  occasion,  those 
brutes,  by  comparing  their  conduct  with 
that  of  the  soldiers  of  the  other  allied 
countries,  who  occupied  the  adjoining 
quarters  of  the  town  without  harming  any- 
one. No,  the  Germans,  they  alone  prac- 
tised torture,  and  the  poor  creatures  de- 
livered up  to  their  doltish  cruelty  tried  to 
preserve  themselves  by  pasting  on  their 
doors  ingenuous  inscriptions  such  as 
these,  ''Here  dwell  Chinese  under  French 
protection,''  or  "All  who  dwell  here  are 
Chinese  Christians."  But  this  availed 
them  nothing.    Besides,  their  Emperor — 


WAR  269 

the  same,  always  the  same,  who  is  sure  to 
be  lurking,  his  tentacles  swollen  with 
blood,  at  the  bottom  of  every  gaping  wound 
in  whatever  country  of  the  world,  the  same 
great  organiser  of  slaughter  on  earth,  lord 
of  trickery,  pr'ince  of  shambles  and  of 
charnel-houses — ^he  himself  had  said  to 
his  troops: 

^ '  Go  and  do  as  the  Huns  did.  Let  China 
remain  for  a  century  terrorised  by  your 
visitation." 

And  they  all  obeyed  him  to  the  letter. 

But  the  treasures  out  of  those  houses  in 
Pekin,  pillaged  by  his  orders,  that  lay 
strewn  on  the  ancient  paving-stones  of 
the  streets  over  there,  were  quantities  of 
relics  very  strange  to  us,  very  unfamiliar 
— images  sacred  to  Chinese  worship,  frag- 
ments of  altars  dedicated  to  ancestors, 
little  stelae  of  lacquer,  on  which  were  in- 
scribed in  columns  long  genealogies  of 
Manchus  whose  origins  were  lost  in  night. 


270  WAR 

Here,  on  the  other  hand,  in  this  town  as 
it  is  this  evening,  the  poor  household  gods 
that  lie  among  the  ruins  are  objects 
familiar  to  us,  and  the  sight  of  them  wrings 
our  hearts  even  more.  There  is  a  child  ^s 
cradle,  a  humble  piano  of  antiquated  de- 
sign, which  has  fallen  upside  down  from 
an  upper  story,  and  still  conjures  up  the 
thought  of  old  sonatas  played  of  an  even- 
ing in  the  family  circle. 

And  I  remember  to  have  seen,  lying  in 
the  filth  of  a  gutter,  a  photogi-aph  rever- 
ently "enlarged"  and  framed,  the  portrait 
of  a  charming  old  grandmother,  with  her 
hair  in  curl-papers.  She  must  have  been 
long  at  rest  in  some  burial  vault,  and 
doubtless  the  desecrated  portrait  was  the 
last  earthly  likeness  of  her  that  still 
survived. 

The  noise  of  the  cannon  comes  nearer  as 
we  move  on  through  these  streets  in  their 
death-agony,  where,  during  a  whole  sum- 


WAR  271 

mer  of  desolation,  grasses  and  wild  flowers 
have  had  time  to  spring  up. 

In  the  midst  of  the  town  stands  a  cathe- 
dral, a  little  older  than  that  of  Rheims  and 
very  famous  in  the  history  of  France. 
The  Germans,  to  be  sure,  delighted  in  mak- 
ing it  their  target,  always  under  the  same 
pretext,  with  a  stupid  attempt  at  clever- 
ness, that  there  was  an  observation  post 
at  the  top  of  the  towers.  A  priest  in  a 
cassock  bordered  with  red,  who  has  never 
fled  from  the  shells,  opens  the  door  for  us 
and  accompanies  us. 

It  is  a  very  startling  surprise  to  flnd  on 
entering  that  the  interior  of  the  church  is 
white  throughout  with  the  glaring  white- 
ness of  a  perfectly  new  building.  In  spite 
of  the  breaches  which  the  barbarians  have 
made  in  the  walls  from  top  to  bottom,  it 
does  not,  at  first  sight,  resemble  a  ruin, 
but  rather  a  building  in  course  of  con- 
struction, a  work  which  is  still  proceed- 


272  WAR 

ing.  It  is,  moreover,  a  miracle  of  strength 
and  grace,  a  masterpiece  of  our  Gothic  Art 
in  the  matchless  purity  of  its  first  bloom. 
The  priest  explains  to  us  the  reason  for 
this  disconcerting  whiteness.  Before  the 
coming  of  the  barbarians,  the  long  task 
was  scarcely  completed  of  exposing  the 
under-surface  of  each  stone  in  turn,  so 
that  the  joints  might  be  more  carefully 
repaired  with  cement;  thus  the  grey  hue 
with  which  the  church  had  been  encrusted 
by  the  smoke  of  incense,  burnt  there  for 
so  many  centuries,  had  resolved  itself  into 
dust.  It  was  perhaps  rather  sacrilegious, 
this  scraping  away  of  the  surface,  but  I 
believe  it  helps  to  a  better  appreciation 
of  the  architectural  beauties.  Indeed, 
imder  that  unvarying  shade  of  cinder-grey 
which  we  are  accustomed  to  find  in  our  old 
churches,  the  slender  pillars,  the  delicate 
groining  of  the  vaults,  seem,  as  it  were, 
made  all  in  one,  and  it  might  be  imagined 


WAR  273 

that  no  skill  had  been  necessary  to  cause 
them  thus  to  soar  upwards.  Here,  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  incomprehensible,  discon- 
certing almost,  to  see  how  these  myriads 
and  myriads  of  little  stones,  so  distinct 
each  from  the  other  in  their  renovated 
setting,  remain  thus  suspended,  forming  a 
ceiling  at  such  a  height  above  our  heads. 
Far  better  than  in  churches  blurred  with 
smoky  grey  is  revealed  the  patient,  mirac- 
ulous labour  of  those  artists  of  old,  who, 
without  the  help  of  our  iron-work  or  our 
modern  contrivances,  succeeded  in  bestow- 
ing stability  upon  things  so  fragile  and 
ethereal. 

Within  the  basilica,  as  without,  prevails 
an  anguished  silence,  punctuated  slowly 
by  the  noise  of  cannon  shots.  And  on  the 
episcopal  throne  this  device  remains  legi- 
ble, which,  in  the  midst  of  such  ruin,  has 
the  force  of  an  ironic  anathema  launched 
against  the  barbarians,  pax  et  justitia. 

18 


274  WAR 

Walking  among  the  scattered  debris,  I 
pick  my  way  as  carefully  as  possible  to 
avoid  stepping  on  precious  fragments  of 
stained-glass  windows ;  it  is  pleasanter  not 
to  hear  underfoot  the  little  tinkle  of  break- 
ing glass.  All  the  shades  of  light  of  the 
summer  evening,  seldom  seen  in  such 
sanctuaries,  stream  in  through  gaping 
rents,  or  through  beautiful  thirteenth- 
century  windows,  now  but  hollow  frame- 
works. And  the  double  row  of  columns 
vanishes  in  perspective  in  the  luminous 
white  atmosphere  like  a  forest  of  gigantic 
white  reeds  planted  in  line. 

Emerging  from  the  cathedral,  in  one  of 
the  deserted  streets,  we  come  upon  a  wall 
covered  with  printed  placards,  which  the 
shells  seem  to  have  been  at  special  pains  to 
tear.  These  placards  were  placed  side  by 
side  as  close  together  as  possible,  the  mar- 
gins of  each  encroaching  upon  those  of  its 
neighbours,  as  if  jealous  of  the  space  the 


WAR  275 

others  occupied  and  all  with  an  appear- 
ance of  wishing  to  cover  up  and  to  devour 
one  another.  In  spite  of  the  shrapnel 
which  has  riddled  them  so  effectively,  some 
passages  are  still  legible,  doubtless  those 
that  were  considered  essential,  printed  as 
they  were  in  much  larger  letters  so  that 
they  might  better  strike  the  eye. 

*' Treason!  Scandalous  bluff!"  shouts 
one  of  the  posters. 

* '  Infamous  slander !  Base  lie ! "  replies 
the  other,  in  enormous,  arresting  letters. 

What  on  earth  can  all  this  mean  ? 

Ah  yes,  it  is  a  manifestation  of  all  the 
pettiness  of  our  last  little  election  con- 
tests which  has  remained  placarded  here, 
pilloried  as  it  were,  still  legible  in  spite  of 
the  rains  of  two  summers  and  the  snows  of 
one  winter.  It  is  surprising  how  these 
absurdities  have  survived,  simply  on 
scraps  of  paper  pasted  on  the  walls  of 
houses.    As  a  rule  no  wayfarer  looks  at 


276  WAR 

such  things  as  he  passes  them,  for  in  our 
day  they  have  become  too  contemptible  for 
a  smile  or  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  But 
on  this  wall,  where  the  shells  have  ironi- 
cally treated  them  as  they  deserved,  pierc- 
ing them  with  a  thousand  holes,  they  sud- 
denly assume,  I  know  not  why,  an  air  irre- 
sistibly and  indescribably  comic;  we  owe 
them  a  moment  of  relaxation  and  hearty 
laughter — it  is  doubtless  the  only  time  in 
their  miserable  little  existence  that  they 
have  at  least  served  some  purpose. 

To-day  who  indeed  remembers  the  scur- 
rilities of  the  past  ?  They  who  wrote  them 
and  who  perhaps  even  now  are  brothers- 
in-arms,  fighting  side  by  side,  would  be  the 
first  to  laugh  at  them.  I  will  not  say  that 
later  on,  when  the  barbarians  have  at  last 
gone  away,  party  spirit  will  not  again,  here 
and  there,  attempt  to  raise  its  head.  But 
none  the  less  in  this  great  war  it  has  re- 
ceived a  blow  from  which  it  will  never 


WAR  277 

recover.  Whatever  the  future  may  hold 
for  us,  nothing  can  alter  the  fact  that  once 
in  France,  from  end  to  end  of  our  battle 
front  and  during  long  months,  there  were 
these  interlacing  networks  of  little  tunnels 
called  trenches.  And  these  trenches, 
which  seemed  at  first  sight  nothing  but 
horrible  pits  of  sordid  misery  and  suffer- 
ing, will  actually  have  been  the  grandest 
of  our  temples,  where  we  all  came  to- 
gether to  be  purified  and  to  communicate, 
as  it  were,  at  the  same  holy  table. 

As  for  our  trenches,  they  begin  close 
at  hand,  too  close  alas!  to  the  martyred 
town ;  there  they  are,  in  the  midst  of  the 
mall,  and  we  make  our  way  thither 
through  these  desolate  streets  where  there 
is  no  one  to  be  seen. 

Everyone  knows  that  almost  all  our 
provincial  towns  have  their  mall,  a  shady 
avenue  of  trees  often  centuries  old;  this 
one  was  reputed  to  be  among  the  finest  in 


278  WAR 

France.  But  it  is  indeed  too  risky  to 
venture  there,  for  death  is  ever  prowling 
about  and  we  can  only  cross  it  furtively 
by  these  tortuous  tunnels,  hastily  exca- 
vated, which  are  called  communication 
trenches. 

First  of  all  we  are  shown  a  compre- 
hensive view  of  the  mall  through  a  loop- 
hole in  a  thick  wall.  Its  melancholy  is 
even  more  poignant  than  that  of  the 
streets,  because  this  was  once  a  favourite 
spot  where  formerly  the  good  people  of 
the  town  used  to  resort  for  relaxation  and 
quiet  gaiety.  It  stretches  away  out  of 
sight  between  its  two  rows  of  elms.  It  is 
empty,  to  be  sure,  empty  and  silent.  A 
funereal  growth  of  grass  carpets  its  long 
alleys  with  verdure,  as  if  it  were  given 
up  to  the  peace  of  a  lasting  abandonment, 
and  in  this  exquisite  evening  hour  the  set- 
ting sun  traces  there  row  upon  row  of 
golden  lines,  reaching  away  into  the  dis- 


WAR  279 

tance  among  the  lengthening  shadows  of 
the  trees.  It  might  be  deemed  empty  in- 
deed, the  mall  of  this  martyred  town, 
where  at  this  moment  nothing  stirs,  noth- 
ing is  heard.  But  here  and  there  it  is  fur- 
rowed with  upturned  earth,  resembling, 
on  a  large  scale,  those  heaps  that  rats  and 
moles  throw  up  in  the  fields.  Now  we  can 
guess  the  meaning  of  this,  for  we  are  well 
acquainted  with  the  system  of  clandestine 
passages  used  in  modern  warfare.  From 
these  ominous  little  excavations  we  con- 
clude at  once  that,  contrary  to  expecta- 
tions, this  place  of  mournful  silence  is 
populated  by  a  terrible  race  of  men  con- 
cealed beneath  its  green  grass ;  that  eager 
eyes  survey  it  from  all  sides,  that  hidden 
cannon  cover  it,  that  it  needs  but  an  im- 
perceptible signal  to  cause  a  furious  mani- 
festation of  life  to  burst  forth  there  out 
of  the  ground,  with  fire  and  blood  and 
shouts  and  all  the  clamour  of  death. 


280  WAR 

And  now  by  means  of  a  narrow,  care- 
fully hidden  descent  we  penetrate  into 
those  paths  termed  conmaunication 
trenches,  which  will  bring  us  close,  quite 
close,  to  the  barbarians,  so  close  that  we 
shall  almost  hear  them  breathe.  A  walk 
along  those  trenches  is  a  somewhat  un- 
pleasant experience  and  seems  intermi- 
nable. The  atmosphere  is  hot  and  heavy ; 
you  labour  under  the  impression  that 
people  are  pressing  upon  you  too  closely, 
and  that  your  shoulders  will  rub  against 
the  earthen  walls;  and  then  at  every  ten 
or  twelve  paces  there  are  little  bends,  in- 
tentionally abrupt,  which  force  you  to  turn 
in  your  own  ground;  you  are  conscious 
of  having  walked  ten  times  the  distance 
and  of  having  advanced  scarcely  at  all. 
How  great  is  the  temptation  to  scale  the 
parapet  which  borders  the  trench  in  order 
to  reach  the  open  air,  or  merely  to  put  one  *s 
head  above  it  to  see  at  least  in  which  direc- 


WAR  281 

tion  the  path  tends.  But  to  do  so  would 
be  certain  death.  And  indeed  there  is 
something  torturing  in  this  sense  of  im- 
prisonment within  this  long  labyrinth,  and 
in  the  knowledge  that  in  order  to  escape 
from  it  alive  there  is  no  help  for  it,  but 
to  retrace  one's  steps  along  that  vague  suc- 
cession of  little  turnings,  strangling  and 
obstructing. 

The  heat  and  oppressiveness  of  the 
atmosphere  in  these  tunnels  is  increased 
by  the  number  of  persons  to  be  met  there, 
men  in  horizon  blue  overcoats,  flattening 
themselves  against  the  wall,  whom,  never- 
theless, the  visitor  brushes  against  as  he 
passes.  In  some  parts  the  trenches  are 
crowded  like  the  galleries  of  an  ant-hill, 
and  if  it  suddenly  became  necessary  to  take 
flight,  what  a  scene  would  ensue  of  con- 
fusion and  crushing.  To  be  sure  the  faces 
of  these  men  are  so  smiling  and  at  the 
same  time  so  resolute  that  the  idea  of 


282  WAR 

their  flight  from  any  danger  whatsoever 
does  not  even  enter  the  mind. 

As  the  hour  for  their  evening  meal  ap- 
proaches they  begin  to  set  up  their  little 
tables,  here  and  there,  in  the  safest  cor- 
ners, in  shelters  with  vaulted  roofs.  Ob- 
viously it  is  necessary  to  have  supper  early 
in  order  to  be  able  to  see,  for  certainly  no 
lamps  will  be  lighted.  At  nightfall  it  will 
be  as  dark  here  as  in  hell,  and  unless  there 
is  an  alarm,  an  attack  with  sudden  and 
flashing  lights,  they  will  have  to  feel  their 
way  about  until  to-morrow  morning. 

Here  comes  a  cheerful  procession  of 
men  carrying  soup.  The  soup  has  been 
rather  long  on  the  way  through  these  wind- 
ing paths,  but  it  is  still  hot  and  has  a  pleas- 
ant fragrance,  and  the  messmates  sit  down, 
or  get  as  near  to  that  attitude  as  they  can. 
What  a  strangely  assorted  company,  and 
yet  on  what  good  terms  they  seem  to  be  I 
To-day  I  have  no  time  to  linger,  but  I  re- 


WAR  283 

member  lately  sitting  a  long  time  and  chat- 
ting at  the  end  of  a  meal  in  a  trench  in 
the  Argonne.  Of  that  company,  seated 
side  by  side,  one  was  formerly  a  long- 
named  conscientious  objector,  turned  now 
into  a  heroic  sergeant,  whose  eyes  will 
actually  grow  misty  with  tears  at  the  sight 
of  one  of  our  bullet-pierced  flags  borne 
along.  Near  him  sat  a  former  apache, 
whose  cheeks,  once  pale  from  nights  spent 
in  squalid  drinking-kens,  were  now 
bronzed  by  the  open  air,  and  he  seemed  at 
present  a  decent  little  fellow ;  and  finally, 
the  gayest  of  them  all  was  a  fine-looking 
soldier  of  about  thirty,  who  no  longer  had 
time  to  shave  his  long  beard,  but  never- 
theless preserved  carefully  a  tonsure  on 
the  top  of  his  head.  And  the  comrade, 
who  every  other  day  did  his  best  to  con- 
serve this  tell-tale  manner  of  hairdressing, 
was  formerly  a  root-and-branch  anticleri- 
calist,  by  profession  a  zinc-maker  at  Belle- 
ville. 


284  WAR 

We  continue  our  way,  still  without  see- 
ing anything,  following  blindly.  But  we 
must  be  near  the  end  of  our  journey,  for 
we  are  told: 

'*Now  you  must  walk  without  making 
a  sound  and  speak  softly,"  and  a  little 
farther  on,  "Now  you  must  not  speak  at 
all." 

And  when  one  of  us  raises  his  head  too 
high  a  sharp  report  rings  out  close  to  us, 
and  a  bullet  whistles  over  our  heads,  misses 
its  mark,  and  is  lost  in  the  brushwood, 
whence  it  strips  the  leaves.  Afterwards 
silence  falls  again,  more  profound, 
stranger  than  ever. 

The  terminus  is  a  vaulted  redoubt,  its 
walls  composed  partly  of  clay,  partly  of 
sheet-iron.  This  blindage  has  been  pierced 
with  two  or  three  little  holes,  which  can 
be  very  quickly  opened  or  shut  by  rapidly 
working  mechanism,  and  it  is  through 
these  holes  alone  that  it  is  possible  for  us 


WAR  285 

to  look  out  for  a  few  seconds  with  some 
measure  of  safety,  without  receiving  sud- 
denly a  bullet  in  the  head  by  way  of  the 
eyes. 

What,  have  we  only  come  as  far  as  this  f 
After  walking  all  this  time  we  have  not 
reached  even  the  end  of  the  mall.  In  front 
of  us  still  extend,  under  the  shade  of  the 
elms,  straight  and  peaceful,  its  desolate 
grass-grown  walks.  The  sun  has  blotted 
out  the  golden  lines  it  was  tracing  a  mo- 
ment ago,  and  twilight  will  presently  be 
over  all,  and  there  is  still  no  sound,  not 
even  the  cries  of  birds  calling  one  another 
home  to  roost ;  it  is  like  the  immobility  and 
silence  of  death. 

Looking  in  a  different  direction  through 
another  opening  in  the  sheet-iron,  on  the 
other  bank  (the  right  bank),  scarcely 
twenty  yards  away  from  us,  quite  close 
to  the  edge  of  the  little  river,  of  which  we 
hold  the  left  bank,  we  notice  perfectly 


286  WAR 

new  earth-works,  masked  by  the  kindly 
protection  of  branches,  and  there,  as  in 
the  mall,  silence  prevails,  but  it  is  the  same 
silence,  too  obviously  studied,  suspicious, 
full  of  dread.  Then  someone  whispers  in 
my  ear: 

**It  is  They  who  are  there.'' 

It  is  They  who  are  there,  as  indeed  we 
had  surmised,  for  in  many  other  places 
we  had  already  observed  similar  dreadful 
regions,  close  to  our  own,  steeped  in  a  de- 
ceptive silence,  characteristic  of  ultra-mod- 
ern warfare.  Yes,  it  is  They  who  are  there, 
still  there,  well  entrenched  in  the  shelter 
of  our  own  French  soil,  which  does  not 
even  fall  in  upon  them  and  smother  them. 
Sons  of  that  vile  race  which  has  the  taint 
of  lying  in  its  blood,  they  have  taught  all 
the  armies  of  the  world  the  art  of  making 
even  inanimate  objects  lie,  even  the  out- 
ward semblance  of  things.  Their  trenches 
under  their  verdure  disguise  themselves 


WAR  287 

as  innocent  furrows ;  the  houses  that  shel- 
ter their  staffs  assume  the  aspect  of  de- 
serted ruins.  They  are  never  to  be  seen, 
these  hidden  enemies;  they  advance  and 
invade  like  white  ants  or  gnawing  worms, 
and  then  at  the  most  unexpected  moment 
of  day  or  night,  preceded  by  all  varieties 
of  diabolical  preparations  that  they  have 
devised,  burning  liquids,  blinding  gas, 
asphyxiating  gas,  they  leap  out  from  the 
ground  like  beasts  in  a  menagerie  whose 
cages  have  been  unfastened.  How  humili- 
ating! After  prodigious  efforts  in  me- 
chanics and  chemistry  to  revert  to  the 
custom  of  the  age  of  cave-dwellers ;  after 
fighting  for  more  than  a  year  with  lethal 
weapons  perfected  with  infernal  ingenuity 
for  slaughter  at  long  range  to  be  found 
thus,  almost  on  top  of  one  another  for 
months  at  a  time,  with  straining  nerves 
and  every  sense  alert,  and  yet  all  hidden 
away  under  cover,  not  daring  to  budge  an 
inch ! 


288  WAR 

How  horrible !  I  believe  they  were  actu- 
ally whispering  in  those  trenches  opposite. 
Like  ourselves  they  speak  in  low  voices; 
nevertheless  the  German  intonation  is  un- 
mistakable. They  are  talking  to  one 
another,  those  invisible  beings.  In  the  in- 
finite silence  that  surrounds  us,  their 
muffled  whispers  come  to  us,  as  it  were, 
from  below,  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 
An  abrupt  command,  doubtless  uttered  by 
one  of  their  officers,  calls  them  to  order, 
and  they  are  suddenly  silent.  But  we  have 
heard  them,  heard  them  close  to  us,  and 
that  murmur,  proceeding,  as  it  were,  from 
burrowing  animals,  falls  more  mourn- 
fully upon  the  ear  than  any  clamour  of 
battle. 

It  is  not  that  their  voices  were  brutal ; 
on  the  contrary,  they  sounded  almost 
musical,  so  much  so  that  had  we  not  known 
who  the  talkers  were  we  should  not  have 
felt  that  shudder  of  disgust  pass  through 


WAR  289 

our  flesh;  we  should  have  been  inclined, 
rather,  to  say  to  them : 

"Come,  a  truce  to  this  game  of  death! 
Are  we  not  men  and  brothers  ?  Come  out 
of  your  shelters  and  let  us  shake  hands." 

But  it  is  only  too  well  known  that  if 
their  voices  are  human  and  their  faces  too, 
more  or  less,  it  is  not  so  with  their  souls. 
They  lack  the  vital  moral  senses,  loyalty, 
honour,  remorse,  and  that  sentiment  espe- 
cially, which  is  perhaps  noblest  of  all  and 
yet  most  elementary,  which  even  animals 
sometimes  possess,  the  sentiment  of  pity. 

I  remember  a  phrase  of  Victor  Hugo 
which  formerly  seemed  to  me  exaggerated 
and  obscure;  he  said: 

*' Night,  which  in  a  wild  beast  takes  the 
place  of  a  soul." 

To-day,  thanks  to  the  revelation  of  the 
German  soul,  I  understand  the  metaphor. 
What  else  can  there  be  but  impenetrable, 
rayless  night  in  the  soul  of  their  baleful 

19 


290  WAR 

Emperor  and  in  the  soul  of  their  heir  ap- 
parent, his  ferret  face  dwarfed  by  a  black 
busby  with  the  charming  adornment  of  a 
death's  head?  All  their  lives  they  have 
had  no  other  thought  than  to  construct  en- 
gines for  slaughter,  to  invent  explosives 
and  poisons  for  slaughter,  to  train  soldiers 
for  slaughter.  For  the  sake  of  their  mon- 
strous personal  vanity  they  organised  all 
the  barbarism  latent  in  the  depths  of  the 
German  race ;  they  organised  (I  repeat  the 
word  because  though  it  is  not  good  French 
alas!  it  is  essentially  German),  they  *' or- 
ganised,"  then,  its  indigenous  ferocity;  or- 
ganised its  grotesque  megalomania ;  organ- 
ised its  sheep-like  submissiveness  and 
imbecile  credulity.  And  afterwards  they 
did  not  die  of  horror  at  the  sight  of  their 
own  work !  Can  it  be  that  they  still  dare 
to  go  on  living,  these  creatures  of  dark- 
ness? In  the  sight  of  so  many  tears,  so 
many  torments,  such  vast  ossuaries,  that 


WAR  291 

infamous  pair  continue  peacefully  sleep- 
ing, eating,  receiving  homage,  and  doubt- 
less they  will  pose  for  sculptors  and  be 
immortalised  in  bronze  or  marble — all  this 
when  they  ought  to  be  subjected  to  a  re- 
finement of  old  Chinese  tortures.  Oh,  all 
this  that  I  say  about  them  is  not  for  the 
sake  of  uselessly  stirring  up  the  hatred 
of  the  world ;  no,  but  I  believe  it  to  be  my 
duty  to  do  all  that  in  me  lies  to  arrest  that 
perilous  forgetfulness  which  will  once 
again  shut  its  eyes  to  their  crimes.  So 
much  do  I  fear  our  light-hearted  French 
ways,  our  sunple,  confiding  disposition. 
We  are  quite  capable  of  allowing  the  ten- 
tacles of  the  great  devil-fish  gradually  to 
worm  their  way  again  into  our  flesh.  Who 
knows  if  our  country  will  not  soon  be 
swarming  again  with  a  vermin  of  count- 
less spies,  crafty  parasites,  navvies  work- 
ing clandestinely  at  concrete  platforms  for 
German  cannon  under  the  very  floors  of 


292  WAR 

our  dwellings.  Oh,  let  us  never  forget  that 
this  predatory  race  is  incurably  treach- 
erous, thievish,  murderous ;  that  no  treaty 
of  peace  will  ever  bind  it,  and  that  until 
it  is  crushed,  until  its  head  has  been 
cut  off — its  terrible  Gorgon  head  which 
is  Prussian  Imperialism — it  will  always 
begin  again. 

When  in  the  streets  of  our  towns  we 
meet  those  yoimg  men  who  are  disabled, 
mutilated,  who  walk  along  slowly  in 
groups,  supporting  one  another,  or  those 
young  men  who  are  blinded  and  are  led 
by  the  hand,  and  all  those  women,  bowed 
down,  as  it  were,  under  their  veils  of  crape, 
let  us  reflect: 

**This  is  their  work.  And  the  man  who 
spent  so  long  a  time  preparing  all  this  for 
us  is  their  Kaiser — and  he,  if  he  be  not 
crushed,  will  think  of  nothing  but  how  he 
may  begin  all  over  again  to-morrow." 

And  outside  railway  stations  where  men 


WAR  293 

are  entrained  for  the  front,  we  may  meet 
some  young  woman  with  a  little  child  in 
her  arms,  restraining  the  tears  that  stand 
in  her  brave,  sorrowful  eyes,  who  has  come 
to  say  good-bye  to  a  soldier  in  field  kit. 
At  the  sight  of  her  let  us  say  to  ourselves : 

"This  man,  whose  return  is  so  passion- 
ately longed  for,  the  Kaiser's  shrapnel 
doubtless  awaits;  to-morrow  he  may  be 
hurled,  nameless,  among  thousands  of 
others,  into  those  charnel-houses  in  which 
Germany  delights,  and  which  she  will  ask 
nothing  better  than  to  be  allowed  to  begin 
filling  again." 

Especially  when  we  see  passing  by  in 
their  new  blue  uniforms  the  "young 
class,"  our  dearly  loved  sons,  who  march 
away  so  splendidly  with  pride  and  joy  in 
their  bojdsh  eyes,  with  bunches  of  roses 
at  the  ends  of  their  rifles,  let  us  consider 
well  our  holy  vengeance  against  the  enemy 
who  are  lying  in  wait  for  them  yonder — 


294  WAR 

and  against  the  great  Accursed,  whose  soul 
is  black  as  night. 

From  that  roofed-over  redoubt  where 
we  are  at  present,  whose  iron  flaps  we  have 
to  raise  if  we  would  look  out,  the  mall  is 
still  visible  with  its  green  grass ;  the  mall, 
lying  there  so  peaceful  in  the  dim  light 
of  evening.  The  barbarians  are  no  more 
to  be  heard;  they  have  stopped  talking; 
they  do  not  move  or  breathe ;  and  only  a 
sense  of  uneasy  sadness,  I  had  almost  said 
of  discouraged  sadness,  remains,  at  the 
thought  that  they  are  so  near. 

But  in  order  to  be  restored  to  hope  and 
cheerful  confidence,  it  is  sufficient  to  turn 
back  along  the  communication  trenches, 
where  the  men  are  just  finishing  their  sup- 
per in  the  pleasant  twilight.  As  soon  as 
our  soldiers  are  far  enough  away  from 
those  others  to  talk  freely  and  laugh  freely, 
there  is  suddenly  a  wave  of  healthy  gaiety 
and  of  perfect  and  reassuring  confidence. 


WAR  295 

Here  is  the  true  fountain-head  of  our 
irresistible  strength;  from  this  source  we 
draw  that  marvellous  energy  which  char- 
acterises our  attacks  and  will  secure  the 
final  victory.  Very  striking  at  first  sight 
in  the  groups  around  these  tables  is  the 
excellent  understanding,  a  kind  of  affec- 
tionate familiarity,  that  unites  officers  and 
men.  For  a  long  time  this  spirit  has  ex- 
isted in  the  Navy,  where  protracted  exile 
from  home  and  dangers  shared  in  the  close 
association  of  life  on  board  ship  neces- 
sarily draw  men  nearer  together;  but  I 
do  not  think  my  comrades  of  the  land 
forces  will  be  angry  with  me  if  I  say  that 
this  familiarity,  so  compatible  with  dis- 
cipline, is  a  more  recent  development  with 
them  than  with  us.  One  of  the  benefits 
conferred  upon  them  by  trench  warfare  is 
the  necessity  of  living  thus  nearer  to  their 
soldiers,  and  this  gives  them  an  oppor- 
tunity of  winning  their  affection.   At  pres- 


296  WAR 

ent  they  know  nearly  all  those  comrades 
of  theirs  who  are  simple  privates;  they 
call  them  by  name  and  talk  to  them  like 
friends.  And  so,  when  the  solemn  moment 
comes  for  the  attack,  when,  instead  of 
driving  them  in  front  of  them  with  whips, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  savages  over  there, 
they  lead  them,  after  the  manner  of  the 
French,  it  is  hardly  necessary  for  them  to 
turn  round  to  see  if  everyone  is  following 
them. 

Moreover,  they  are  very  sure  that,  if 
they  fall,  their  humble  comrades  will  not 
fail  to  hasten  to  their  side,  and,  at  the  risk 
of  their  own  lives,  defend  them,  or  carry 
them  tenderly  away. 

Now  it  is  to  this  superhmnan  war,  and 
especially  to  the  common  existence  in  the 
trenches,  that  we  owe  the  ennobling  in- 
fluence of  this  concord,  those  sublime  acts 
of  mutual  devotion,  at  which  we  are 
tempted  to  bend  the  knee.    And  in  part  is 


WAR  297 

it  not  likewise  owing  to  life  in  the  trenches, 
to  long  and  more  intimate  conversations 
between  officers  and  men,  that  these  gleams 
of  beauty  have  penetrated  into  the  minds 
of  all,  even  of  those  whose  intelligence 
seemed  in  the  last  degree  unimpression- 
able and  jaded.  They  know  now,  our  sol- 
diers, even  the  least  of  them,  that  France 
has  never  been  so  worthy  of  admiration, 
and  that  its  glory  casts  a  light  upon  them 
all.  They  know  that  a  race  is  imperish- 
able in  which  the  hearts  of  all  awaken 
thus  to  life,  and  that  Neutral  Countries, 
even  those  whose  eyes  seem  blinded  by  the 
most  impenetrable  scales,  will  in  the  end 
see  clearly  and  bestow  upon  us  the  glorious 
name  of  liberators. 

Oh  let  us  bless  these  trenches  of  ours, 
where  all  ranks  of  society  intermingle, 
where  friendships  have  been  formed  which 
yesterday  would  not  have  seemed  possible, 
where  men  of  the  world  will  have  learnt 


298  WAR 

that  the  soul  of  a  peasant,  an  artisan,  a 
common  workman  may  prove  itself  as 
great  and  good  as  that  of  a  very  fine  gentle- 
man, and  of  even  deeper  interest,  being 
more  impulsive,  more  transparent  and 
with  less  veneer  upon  it. 

In  trenches,  communication  trenches, 
little  dark  labyrinths,  little  tunnels  where 
men  suffer  and  sacrifice  themselves,  there 
will  be  found  established  our  best  and  pur- 
est school  of  socialism.  But  by  this  term 
socialism,  a  term  too  often  profaned,  I 
mean  true  socialism,  be  it  understood, 
which  is  synonymous  with  tolerance  and 
brotherhood,,  that  socialism,  in  a  word, 
which  Christ  came  to  teach  us  in  that  clear 
formula,  which  in  its  adorable  simplicity 
sums  up  all  formulae,  ''Love  one  another." 


XXV 
THE  TWO  GORGON  HEADS 

^^My  plan  is  first  to  take  possession.  At 
a  later  stage  I  can  always  find  learned  men 
to  prove  that  I  was  acting  within  my  just 
rights.'^ 

Frederick  II. 

(called,  for  want  of  a  better  epithet,  the 
Great) . 

I 
Their  Kaiser 

April,  1916. 
There  are  certain  faces  of  the  accursed, 
which  reveal  in  the  end  with  the  coming 
of  old  age  the  accumulated  horror  and 
darkness  that  has  been  seething  in  the 
depths  of  the  soul.  The  features  are  by  no 
means  always  ignoble,  but  on  these  faces 
something  is  imprinted  which  is  a  thou- 
sand times  worse  than  ugliness,  and  none 

299 


300  WAR 

can  bear  to  look  upon  them.  Thus  it  is 
with  their  Kaiser.  The  sight  of  his  sin- 
ister presentment  alone,  a  mere  glimpse  of 
the  smallest  portrait  of  him  reproduced 
in  a  newspaper,  is  sufficient  to  make  the 
blood  run  cold.  Oh  that  viperine  eye  of 
his,  shaded  by  flaccid  lids,  that  smile 
twisted  awry  by  all  his  secret  vices,  his 
utter  hypocrisy,  morbid  brutality,  added 
to  cold  ferocity,  and  overweening  arro- 
gance which  in  itself  is  enough  to  provoke 
a  horsewhip  to  lash  him  of  its  own  accord. 
Once  in  an  old  temple  in  Japan  I  saw  a 
gruesome  work  of  art,  which  was  consid- 
ered a  masterpiece  of  genre  painting,  and 
had  been  preserved  for  centuries,  wrapped 
in  a  veil,  in  one  of  the  coffers  containing 
temple  treasures. 

It  is  well  known  how  highly  the  Japanese 
esteem  gruesome  works  of  art,  and  what 
masters  their  artists  are  in  the  cult  of  the 
horrible.    It  was  a  mask  of  a  human  face, 


WAR  301 

with  features,  if  anything,  rather  regular 
and  refined,  but  if  you  looked  at  it  atten- 
tively its  appalling  expression,  at  the  same 
time  cruel  and  lifeless,  haunted  you  for 
days  and  nights.  From  out  the  cadaverous 
flesh,  livid  and  lined,  gleamed  its  two  eyes, 
partly  closed,  but  one  more  so  than  the 
other,  and  they  seemed  to  wink,  as  if  to 
say: 

"For  a  long  time,  while  I  lay  waiting 
there  in  my  box,  I  meditated  some  ghastly 
surprise  for  you,  and  at  last  you  have 
come ;  you  are  in  my  power,  and  here  it  is. ' ' 

Well,  for  those  who  have  eyes  to  see, 
the  face  of  their  Kaiser  is  as  shocking  as 
that  mask,  hidden  away  in  the  old  temple 
over  there ;  it  matters  not  in  what  kind  of 
helmet,  more  or  less  savage  in  design,  he 
may  choose  to  trick  himself  out,  whether 
it  have  a  spike  or  a  death's  head.  In  all 
the  years  during  which  the  terrible  ex- 
pression of  this  man  has  haunted  me,  I 


302  WAR 

not  only  shared  the  presentiment  common 
to  everyone  else  that  he  was  "meditating 
some  surprise  for  us,"  but  I  had  a  fore- 
boding that  his  plot  would  be  laid  with 
diabolical  wickedness  and  would  prove 
more  terrible  than  all  the  crimes  of  old, 
uncivilised  times.    And  I  said  to  myself: 

"It  is  of  vital  importance  for  the  safe- 
guard of  humanity  to  kill  that  thing." 

Indeed  he  should  have  been  killed,  the 
hyena  slain,  before  his  latent  rabidness  had 
completely  developed,  or  at  least  he  should 
have  been  chained  up,  muzzled,  impris- 
oned behind  close  set  and  solid  bars. 

What  could  have  possessed  the  anar- 
chists, to  whom  such  an  opportunity  pre- 
sented itself  of  redeeming  their  charac- 
ter, of  deserving  the  gratitude  of  the 
world,  what  could  have  possessed  them? 
When  there  is  question  of  killing  a  sover- 
eign they  attempt  the  life  of  the  charm- 
ing young  King  of  Spain.    From  the  Aus- 


WAR  303 

trian  court,  which  held  a  far  more  suitable 
victim,  they  select  and  stab  the  mysterious 
and  lovely  Empress,  who  never  harmed  a 
soul.  And  of  the  quartet  of  kings  in  the 
Balkans,  their  choice  fell  upon  the  King 
of  Greece,  when  there  was  that  monster 
Coburg  close  at  hand,  an  opportunity  truly 
unique. 

Their  Kaiser,  their  unspeakable.  Pro- 
tean Kaiser,  whenever  it  seems  that  every- 
thing possible  has  been  said  about  him, 
bewilders  one  by  breaking  out  in  some  new 
direction  which  no  one  could  ever  have 
foreseen.  After  his  almost  doltish  ob- 
stinacy in  persistently  posing  his  Germany 
as  the  victim  who  was  attacked,  in  spite 
of  most  blinding  evidence  to  the  contrary, 
most  formal  written  proofs,  most  crushing 
confessions  which  escaped  the  lips  of  his 
accomplices,  did  he  not  just  recently  feel 
a  need  to  *' swear  before  God"  that  his 
conscience  was  pure  and  that  he  had  not 


304  WAR 

wished  for  war?  Before  what  God?  Ob- 
viously before  his  own,  *'his  old  God," 
proper  to  himself,  whom  in  private  he 
must  assuredly  call,  *'my  old  Beelzebub." 
What  excellent  taste,  moreover,  to  couple 
that  epithet  *'old"  with  such  a  name ! 

This  Kaiser  of  theirs  seems  to  have  re- 
ceived from  his  old  Beelzebub  not  only  a 
mission  to  spread  abroad  the  uttermost 
mourning,  to  cause  the  most  abundant  out- 
pouring of  blood  and  tears,  but  also  a 
mission  to  shoot  down  all  forms  of  beauty, 
all  religious  memorials ;  a  mission  to  pro- 
fane everything,  defile  everything,  and  dis- 
figure everything  that  he  should  fail  to 
destroy.  He  has  succeeded  even  in  bring- 
ing dishonour  on  science,  by  degrading  it 
to  play  the  part  of  accomplice  in  his 
crimes.  Moreover  it  is  not  merely  that 
this  war  of  his,  this  war  which  he  forced 
upon  us  with  such  damnable  deliberation, 
will  have  been  a  thousand  times  more  de- 


WAR  305 

structive  of  human  life  than  all  the  wars 
of  the  past  collectively,  but  he  must  needs 
likewise  attack  with  vindictive  fury,  he 
and  his  rabble  of  followers,  all  those  treas- 
ures of  art  which  should  have  remained 
an  inviolable  heritage  of  civilised  Europe. 
And  if  ever  he  had  succeeded  in  realising 
his  dream  of  morbid  vanity  and  becoming 
absolute  tyrant  of  the  world,  not  by  means 
of  explosives  and  scrap-iron  alone  would 
he  have  achieved  the  ruin  of  all  art,  but 
through  the  incurably  bad  taste  of  his  Ger- 
many. It  is  sufficient  to  have  visited  Ber- 
lin, the  capital  city  of  pinchbeck,  of  the 
gilded  decorations  of  the  parvenu,  to  form 
an  idea  of  what  our  towns  would  have 
become.  And  with  a  shudder  one  contem- 
plates the  rapid  and  final  decadence  of 
those  wonderful  Eastern  towns,  Stamboul, 
Damascus,  Bagdad,  upon  the  day  when 
they  should  submit  to  his  law. 
This  unspeakable  Kaiser  of  theirs,  how 

20 


306  WAR 

cunningly  sometimes  lie  adds  to  dishonour 
a  touch  of  the  grotesque.  For  instance, 
did  he  not  lately  offer  as  a  pledge  to  that 
insignificant  King  of  Greece  his  word  of 
a  Hohenzollern  ?  The  day  after  the  viola- 
tion of  Belgium  to  dare  to  offer  his  word 
was  admirable  enough,  but  to  add  that  his 
word  was  that  of  a  Hohenzollern,  what  a 
happy  conceit!  Is  it  the  result  of  dense 
unconsciousness  or  of  the  insolent  irony 
with  which  he  regards  his  timid  brother- 
in-law,  at  whose  little  army,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  a  visit  to  Athens,  he  scoffed  so  dis- 
dainfully? Who  that  has  some  slight 
tincture  of  history  is  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  during  the  five  hundred  years  of  its 
notoriety  the  accursed  line  of  the  Hohen- 
zollern has  never  produced  anything  but 
shameless  liars,  kites  that  prey  on  flesh. 
As  early  as  1762  did  not  the  great  Empress 
Maria  Theresa  write  of  them  in  these 
terms : 


WAR  307 

^*A11  the  world  knows  what  value  to  at- 
tach to  the  King  of  Prussia  and  his  word. 
There  is  no  sovereign  in  Europe  who  has 
not  suffered  from  his  perfidy.  And  such 
a  king  as  this  would  impose  himself  upon 
Germany  as  dictator  and  protector! 
Under  a  despotism  which  repudiates  every 
principle,  the  Prussian  monarchy  will  one 
day  be  the  source  of  infinite  calamity,  not 
only  to  Germany,  but  likewise  to  the  whole 
of  Europe." 

Unhappy  King  of  Greece,  who  ap- 
proached too  near  to  the  glare  of  the  Gor- 
gon, and  lies  to-day  annihilated  almost  by 
its  baleful  influence !  Should  not  his  ex- 
ample be  as  much  an  object  lesson — though 
without  the  heroism  and  the  glory — for 
sovereigns  of  neutral  nations  who  have 
still  been  spared,  as  the  examples  of  the 
King  of  Belgium  and  the  King  of  Serbia  ? 

Their  Kaiser,  whose  mere  glance  is 
ominous  of  death,  baffles  reason  and  com- 


308  WAR 

mon  sense.  The  morbid  degeneracy  of  his 
brain  is  undeniable,  and  yet  in  certain  re- 
spects it  is  nevertheless  a  brain  excellently 
ordered  for  planning  evil,  and  it  has  made 
a  special  study  of  the  art  of  slaughter. 
For  the  honour  of  humanity  let  us  grant 
that  he  is  mad,  as  a  certain  prince  of  Sax- 
ony has  just  publicly  declared. 

Agreed ;  he  is  mad.  His  case  may  actu- 
ally be  classified  as  teratological,  and  in 
any  other  country  but  Germany  this  war 
of  his  would  have  resulted  for  him  in  a 
strait-waistcoat  and  a  cell.  But  alas  for 
Europe !  the  accident  of  his  birth  has  made 
him  Kaiser  of  the  one  nation  capable  of 
tolerating  him  and  of  obeying  him — a 
people  cruel  by  nature  and  rendered  fero- 
cious by  civilisation,  as  Goethe  avers;  a 
people  of  infinite  stupidity,  as  Schopen- 
hauer confesses  in  his  last  solemn 
testament. 

In  some  respects  this  infinite  stupidity 


WAR  309 

he  himself  shares.  Otherwise  would  he 
have  failed  so  irremediably  in  his  first  out- 
set in  1914  as  to  imagine  up  to  the  very 
last  moment  that  England  would  not  stir, 
even  in  face  of  Belgium's  great  sacrifice.^ 
And  is  there  not  at  least  as  much  folly 
as  ferocity  in  his  massacres  of  civilians, 
his  torpedoing  of  ships  belonging  to  neu- 
tral countries,  his  outrages  in  America,  his 
Zeppelins,  his  asphyxiating  gas ;  all  those 
odious  crimes  which  he  personally  insti- 

^  In  addition  to  a  thousand  other  widely  known 
examples  of  his  shameless  knavery,  I  record  another 
instance,  which,  moreover,  may  easily  be  verified; 
an  instance  perhaps  not  yet  sufficiently  widely  pub- 
lished. Be  it  known  to  everyone  that  on  August 
2nd,  1914,  on  the  very  eve  of  the  violation  of  Bel- 
gium, when  the  German  Army  was  already  massed 
on  the  frontier  and  all  the  orders  had  been  given 
for  the  attack  the  next  day.  King  Albert  called  upon 
the  Kaiser  for  an  explanation.  The. Kaiser  replied 
officially  through  his  diplomatists : 

'*  The  Belgians  have  no  cause  for  alarm.  I 
have  not  the  slightest  intention  of  repudiating  my 
signature. ' ' 


310  WAR 

gated,  and  which  have  had  merely  the  re- 
sult of  concentrating  upon  himself  and  his 
German  Empire  universal  hatred  and 
disgust? 

After  forty  years  of  feverish  prepara- 
tion, with  such  formidable  resources  at  his 
disposal,  shrinking  from  no  measures  how- 
ever atrocious  and  vile,  trammelled  by  no 
law  of  humanity,  by  no  pang  of  conscience, 
to  wallow  thus  in  blood,  and  yet  after  all 
to  achieve  nothing  but  failure — there  is  no 
other  explanation  possible ;  some  essential 
quality  must  be  lacking  in  his  murderous 
brain.  And  the  nation  must  indeed  be 
German  in  character  still  to  suffer  itself  to 
be  led  onwards  to  its  downfall  by  an  un- 
balanced lunatic  responsible  for  such 
blunders.  They  are  led  onwards  to  down- 
fall and  butchery.  And  is  there  never  a 
limit  to  the  sheepish  submission  of  a  people 
who  at  this  very  moment  are  suffering 
themselves  to  be  slaughtered  like  mere 


WAR  311 

cattle  in  attacks  directed  with  imbecile 
fury  by  a  microcephalous  youth,  equally 
devoid  of  intelligence  and  soul? 

II 

Ferdinand  of  Coburg 
But  recently  it  would  have  seemed  an 
impossible  wager  to  undertake  to  find  an 
even  more  abominable  monster  than  their 
Kaiser  and  their  Crown  Prince.  Never- 
theless the  wager  has  been  made  and  won ; 
this  Coburg  has  been  found. 

And  to  think  that  in  his  time  he  aroused 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  majority  of  our 
women  of  France!  About  the  year  1913, 
when  I  alone  was  beginning  to  nail  him 
to  the  pillory,  they  were  exalting  his 
name  and  flaunting  his  colours.  *  *  Paladin 
of  the  Cross" — as  such  he  was  popularly 
known  among  us.  Oh,  a  sincere  paladin 
he  was,  to  be  sure,  wearing  the  scapular, 
steeped  in  Masses,  after  the  fashion  of 


312  WAR 

Louis  XI.,  yet  one  fine  morning  secretly 
forcing  apostasy  upon  his  son.  Moreover 
we  know  that  to-day,  for  our  entertain- 
ment, he  is  making  preparations  for  a  sec- 
ond comedy  of  conversion  to  the  Catholic 
faith,  which  he  recently  renoimced  for  po- 
litical reasons,  and  over  there  he  will  find 
priests  ready  to  bless  the  operation  and  to 
keep  a  straight  face  the  while. 

He,  too,  has  a  Gorgon's  head,  and  his 
face,  like  the  Kaiser's,  is  marked  with  the 
stigmata  of  knavery  and  crime.  Twenty- 
five  years  ago,  at  the  railway  station  of 
Sofia,  when  for  the  first  time  I  came  under 
the  malevolent  glance  of  his  small  eyes, 
I  felt  my  nerves  vibrate  with  that  shudder 
of  disgust  which  is  an  instinctive  warning 
of  the  proximity  of  a  monster,  and  I  asked : 

**Who  is  that  vampire?" 

Someone  replied  in  a  low,  apprehensive 
voice : 

''It  is  our  prince;  you  should  bow  to 
him." 


WAR  313 

Ah,  no  indeed;  not  that! 

In  private  life  this  man  has  proved  him- 
self a  cowardly  assassin,  committing  his 
murders  from  a  safe  distance,  for  he  pru- 
dently crossed  the  border  whenever  his 
executioner  had  "work  to  do"  by  his 
orders.  And  then,  as  soon  as  any  particu- 
lar headsman  threatened  to  compromise 
him  he  would  take  effective  steps  to  cripple 
him.^ 

And  this  man,  too,  offers  up  prayers  in 
imitation  of  that  other.  Recently,  when 
there  was  a  hope  that  his  great  accomplice 
was  at  last  about  to  die  of  the  hereditary 
taint  in  his  blood,  he  knelt  for  a  long  time 
between  two  rows  of  Germans,  convoked 
as  audience,  to  plead  with  heaven  for  his 
recovery — a  monster  praying  on  behalf  of 
another  monster — and  he  arose,  steeped  in 
divine  grace,  and  said  to  the  audience : 

"I  have  never  before  prayed  so  fer- 
vently." 

^  Panitza,  Stambouloff,  etc. 


314  WAR 

Those  heavy-witted  Boches,  for  whose 
benefit  these  apish  antics  were  performed, 
were  even  they  able  to  restrain  their  wild 
laughter  ?  In  political  life,  likewise,  he  is 
an  assassin,  attempting  the  life  of  nations. 
After  his  first  foul  act  of  treason  against 
Serbia,  his  former  ally,  whom  he  took  in 
the  rear  without  any  declaration  of  war, 
he  endeavoured,  it  will  be  remembered,  to 
throw  upon  his  ministers  the  blame  of  a 
crime  which  was  threatening  to  turn  out 
badly.  And  again  without  warning  he 
deals  another  traitorous  blow  to  the  same 
race  of  heroes,  already  overwhelmed  by 
immense  hordes  of  barbarians,  like  a  high- 
wayman who,  under  pretence  of  helping, 
comes  from  behind  to  give  the  finishing 
stroke  to  a  man  already  at  grips  with  a 
band  of  robbers. 

Poor  little  Serbia,  now  grown  great  and 
sublime !  Lately,  in  my  first  moments  of 
indignation  at  the  report  that  reached  me 


WAR  315 

of  deeds  of  horror  perpetrated  in  Thrace 
and  Macedonia,  I  had  accused  her  unde- 
servedly of  sharing  in  the  guilt.  Once 
again  in  these  pages  I  tender  her  with 
all  my  heart  my  amende  honorable. 

If  Germany's  entente  with  Turkey  was 
so  little  capable  of  being  accomplished  un- 
assisted that  it  was  found  necessary  to 
have  recourse  to  the ' '  suicide ' '  of  the  hered- 
itary prince,  the  entente  with  Bulgaria 
was  made  spontaneously.  Their  Kaiser 
and  this  scion  of  the  Coburgs,  who  emu- 
lates him,  and  is,  as  it  were,  his  duplicate 
in  miniature,  found  each  other  fatally  easy 
to  understand.  That  such  sympathy  was 
likely  to  exist  between  them  might  have 
been  gathered  from  a  mere  comparison  of 
the  two  faces,  each  bearing  the  same  ex- 
pression of  beasts  that  prowl  in  the  night. 
How  was  it  that  our  diplomatists,  ac- 
credited to  the  little  court  of  Sofia,  sus- 
pected nothing  nearly  twenty  months  ago, 


316  WAR 

when  the  treaty  of  brigandage  was  signed 
in  secret  ?  And  to-day,  until  one  devours 
the  other,  behold  them  united,  these  two 
beings,  the  refuse  of  humanity,  compared 
with  whom  the  foulest,  most  hardened 
offenders,  who  drag  a  cannon-ball  along  in 
a  convict's  prison,  seem  to  have  committed 
nothing  but  harmless  and  trifling  offences. 
Arouse  yourselves,  then,  neutral  nations, 
great  and  small,  who  still  fail  to  realise 
that  had  it  not  been  for  us  your  turn  would 
have  come  to  be  trampled  underfoot  like 
Belgium,  like  Serbia  and  Montenegro  only 
yesterday!  The  world  will  not  breathe 
freely  until  these  ultimate  barbarians  have 
been  completely  crushed;  how  is  it  that 
you  have  not  felt  this  ?  What  else  can  be 
necessary  to  open  your  eyes  ?  If  it  is  not 
enough  for  you  to  witness  in  our  coun- 
try all  the  ruin  inflicted  on  us  of  set  pur- 
pose and  to  no  useful  end,  to  read  a  vast 
number  of  irrefutable  testimonies  of  furi- 


WAR  317 

ous  massacres  which  spared  not  even  our 
little  children;  if  all  this  is  not  enough 
look  nearer  home,  look  at  the  insolent 
irony  with  which  this  predatory  race 
brings  pressure  to  bear  upon  you,  look  at 
all  the  outrages,  done  audaciously  or  by 
stealth,  which  have  already  been  com- 
mitted on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean.  Or 
again,  if  indeed  you  are  blind  to  that  which 
goes  on  around  you,  at  least  survey  briefly 
all  the  writings,  during  centuries,  of  their 
men  of  letters,  their  ''great  men."  You 
will  be  horrified  to  discover  on  every  page 
the  most  barefaced  apology  for  violence, 
rapine,  and  crime.  Thus  you  will  estab- 
lish the  fact  that  all  the  horror  with  which 
Europe  is  inundated  to-day  was  contained 
from  the  beginning  in  embryo  there  in  Ger- 
man brains,  and,  moreover,  that  no  other 
race  on  earth  would  have  dared  to  de- 
nounce itself  with  such  cynical  insensi- 
bility.  And  you,  priests  or  monks,  belong- 


318  WAR 

ing  to  the  clergy  of  a  neighbouring  coun- 
try, who  reproach  us  with  impiety  and  are 
the  blindest  of  men  in  proselytising  for 
our  enemies,  turn  over  a  few  pages  of  the 
official  manifesto  addressed  to  the  Belgian 
bishops,  and  tell  us  what  to  think  of  the 
soul  of  a  people  who  continually  take  in 
vain  the  name  of  the  ''All  Highest"  in 
their  burlesque  prayers,  and  then  make 
furious  attacks  on  all  the  sanctuaries  of 
religion,  cathedrals,  or  humble  village 
churches,  overthrowing  the  crucifixes  and 
massacring  the  priests.  Is  it  logically  pos- 
sible for  anyone,  not  of  their  accursed  race, 
to  love  the  Germans  ?  That  a  nation  may 
remain  neutral  I  can  understand,  but  only 
from  fear,  or  from  lack  of  due  prepara- 
tion, or  perhaps,  without  realising  it,  for 
the  lure  of  a  certain  momentary  gain, 
through  a  little  mistaken  and  shortsighted 
selfishness.  Oh,  doubtless  it  is  a  terrible 
thing  to  hurl  oneself  into  such  a  fray !  Yet 


WAR  319 

neutrality,  hesitation  even,  become  worse 
than  dangerous  mistakes ;  they  are  already 
almost  crimes. 

An  insane  scoundrel  dreamed  of  forcing 
upon  us  all  the  ways  of  two  thousand  years 
ago,  the  degrading  serfdom  of  ancient 
days,  the  dark  ages  of  old;  he  plotted  to 
bring  about  for  his  own  profit  a  general 
bankruptcy  of  progress,  liberty,  human 
thought,  and  after  us,  you,  you  neutral 
nations,  were  designated  as  sacrifices  to 
his  insatiable,  ogreish  appetite.  At  least 
help  us  a  little  to  bring  to  a  more  rapid 
conclusion  this  orgy  of  robbery,  destruc- 
tion, massacres,  and  bloodshed.  Enough, 
let  us  awaken  from  this  nightmare! 
Enough,  let  the  whole  world  arise !  Who- 
soever holds  back  to-day,  will  he  not  be 
ashamed  to  keep  his  place  in  the  sun  of 
victory  and  peace  when  it  once  more  shines 
upon  us  ?  And  we,  when  at  last  we  have 
laid  low  the  rabid  hyena,  after  pouring 


320  WAR 

out  our  blood  in  streams,  should  we  not 
almost  have  a  right  to  say,  with  our 
weapons  still  in  our  hands : 

^' You  neutral  nations,  who  will  profit  by 
the  deliverance,  having  taken  no  part  in 
the  struggle,  the  least  you  can  do  is  to 
repay  us  in  some  measure  with  your  ter- 
ritory or  with  your  gold*?" 

Oh,  everywhere  let  the  tocsin  clang,  a 
full  peal,  ringing  from  end  to  end  of  the 
earth ;  let  the  supreme  alarm  ring  out,  and 
let  the  drums  of  all  the  arnaies  roll  the 
charge!  And  down  with  the  German 
Beast ! 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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